807.  iL 
Evlbw 


,    Marian^ 

Wit,    and   v.-iscloi.i 


WIT    AND    WISDOM 

OF 

GEORGE    ELIOT. 


WIT  AND  WISDOM 


OF 


GEORGE    ELIOT. 


Q'01 


BOSTON : 
ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 

1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S73,  by 

11 0  15  K  UTS    B  11 0  T  II K  It  S, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


STEREOTYPED  IJV  JoilN  C.   KlIliAX, 
I'J   SPUING    LAM'.,    BOSTON. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

SCEXES  FROJI  CLERICAL  LIFE       ....  1 

Amos  Barton         . 3 

Mr.  Giljirs  Lore  Story 8 

1  Mr.  Gilfil 12 

-"Mester  Ford" 12 

Janr-Cs  Repentance .13 

1  -Mrs.  Linnet 2G 

"  Mr.  Jerome     .......  2G 

3  Mr.   Dempster 27 

4  Mr.  Tryan       . 27 

ADA:.I  BEDE 31 

'Adam 53 

-Mrs.  Poj'scr 01 

y  Dinah  Morris GG 

4  Burtle  Masscy 70 

5 Parson  Irwine 7i 

c  Setli  Bede 75 

7Lisbeth  Bedc 7G 

8 Mrs.  Irwine 7G 

9 Martin  I'oyser        ......  77 

(iii) 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAC.E. 

THE  MILL  ox  THE  FLOSS 81 

'Bob.Iakin 107 

2  Maggie  Tullivcr 10!) 

3  Mr.  Deane       .                  112 

4  Mr.  Tnllivor 112 

5  Phillip  Wakem 113 

6  Lucy  Deane 115 

7  Stephen  Guest 115 

SILAS  MAIIXEU 119 

1  Dolly  AYinthrop 128 

2  Priseilla  Lainineter 12!) 

3 Mr.  Macey 130 

4  Mr.  Lainineter 131 

5  Godfrey  Cass 131 

6Xaucy  Lainineter    ......  131 

ROMOLA 135 

'Xollo 153 

2Bratti 153 

3Machiavelli 15:5 

1  Koinola    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .154 

5Bardo      .        . 15i; 

cTito 15i; 

7  Bernardo          .......  15i'> 

"Savonarola      .         .         .         .         .         .         .157 

"L'aparra 15S 

10Cosinio 15!> 

11  Monna  liriu'ida        ......  ]5'.» 

'•  Piel.ro  (  Vnini            ......  Id) 

100 


CONTENTS. 

V 

PAGE. 

.     1G3 

'Felix        

.     178 

2RufusLyon     .... 
3  ^\jrs   Holt 

.     184 

.     188 

4Denner    ..... 

.     188 

5  Mr.  Waco        .... 

.     189 

6  Mr.  Johnson  .... 

.     190 

7Ecv.  A.  Debarry     . 
8  Parson  Lingon 
9  Tommy  Trotinsen  . 
10  Harold  Transonic   . 

.     190 
.     190 
.     190 
.     191 

"Mottoes  

.     178 

12  Esther  Lyon   .... 

.     191 

MlDDLKMAKCII             .... 

.     195 

'Dorothea         .... 

243 

2  Mrs.  Cadwalladcr  . 

.     245 

3  Mr.  Cadwallader     . 

.     24G 

4  Lydgatc  

.     24G 

5  Mr.  Fare-brother     . 

.     248 

0  \\'ill  Ladislaw 

.     249 

7  Mary  Garth     .... 
s  Caleb  Garth     .... 
o  Celia 

.     249 
.     249 
.     250 

10  Mr.  Brooke     .... 

.     251 

INDEX 253 


SCENES  FROM  CLERICAL  LIFE 


AMOS    BARTON. 


IN  every  parting  there  is  an  image  of  death. 


O  the  anguish  of  that  thought  that  we  can  never 
atone  to  our  dead  for  the  stinted  affection  we  gave 
them,  for  the  light  answers  we  returned  to  their  plaints 
or  their  pleadings,  for  the  little  reverence  we  showed 
to  that  sacred  human  soul  that  lived  so  elose  to  us, 
and  was  the  divincst  thing  God  had  given  us  to  know! 


Love  is  frightened  at  the  intervals  of  insensibility 
and  callousness  that  encroach  by  little  and  little  on 
the  dominion  of  grief,  and  it  makes  efforts  to  recall  the 
keenness  of  the  first  anguish. 


"What  is  opportunity  to  the  man  who  can't  use  it? 
An  un fecundated  egg,  which  the  Avaves  of  time  wash 
away  into  nonentity. 


A  tallow  dip,  of  the  long-eight  description,  is  an  ex- 
cellent thing  in  the  kitchen  candlestick,  and  Betty's 
nose  and  eye  are  not  sensitive  to  the  difference  be- 
tween it  and  the  linest  wax;  it  is  only  when  you  stick 
it  in  the  silver  candlestick,  and  introduce  it  into  the 
(3) 


4  A. if os  Ji AK Toy. 

drawiug-rooni,  tliat  it  scorns  plebeian,  dim,  and  in- 
effectual. Alas  for  the  worthy  man  who,  like  that 
candle,  gets  himself  into  the  wrong  place!  It  is  only 
the  very  largest  souls  who  will  be  able  to  appreciate 
and  pity  him  —  who  will  discern  and  love  sincerity  of 
urposc  amid  all  the  bungling  feebleness  of  achieve- 
ment. 


Xice  distinctions  are  troublesome.  It  is  so  much 
easier  to  say  that  a  thing  is  black,  than  to  discriminate 
the  particular  shade  of  bro\vn.  blue,  or  irrccn,  to  which 
it  really  belongs.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  make  up 
your  mind  that  your  neighbor  is  good  for  nothing,  than 
to  enter  into  all  the  circumstances  that  would  oblige 
you  to  modify  that  opinion. 


At  least  eighty  out  of  a  hundred  of  your  adult  male 
fellow-Britons  returned  in  the  last  cen>us  are  neither 
extraordinarily  silly,  nor  extraordinarily  wicked,  nor 
extraordinarily  wise ;  their  eyes  are  neither  deep  and 
liquid  with  sentiment,  nor  sparkling  with  suppressed 
witticisms;  they  have  probably  had  no  hairbreadth 
escapes  or  thrilling  adventures ;  their  brain--  are  cer- 
tainly not  pregnant  with  genius,  and  ;!ieir  pa-'-ions 
have  not  manifested  them>elves  at  all  after  the  fa>hi'>n 
of  a  volcano.  They  arc  simply  men  of  complexions 
more  or  less  muddy,  \vho>e  conversation  i-  more  or 
less  bald  and  disjointed.  Yet  these  commonplace  peo- 
ple— many  of  them  —  bear  a  conscience,  and  have  felt 
the  sublime  prompting  to  do  the  painful  right  :  they 
have  their  unspoken  Borrows,  and  their  -acivd  joy.-: 


AMOS  BARTON.  5 

their  hearts  have  perhaps  gone  out  towards  their  first- 
born,  and  they  have  mourned  over  the  irreclaimable 
dead.  Nay,  is  there  not  a  pathos  in  their  very  insig- 
nificance—  in  our  comparison  of  their  dim  and  narrow 
existence  with  the  glorious  possibilities  of  that  human 
nature  which  they  share? 

Depend  upon  it,  you  would  gain  unspeakably  if  you 
would  learn  with  me  to  see  some  of  the  poetry  and  the 
pathos,  the  tragedy  and  the  comedy,  lying  in  the  ex- 
perience of  a  human  soul  that  looks  out  through  dull 
gray  eyes,  and  that  speaks  in  a  voice  of  quite  ordinary 
tones. 


I  have  all  1113-  life  had  a  sympathy  for  mongrel  un- 
gainly dogs,  who  are  nobody's  pets  ;  and  I  would  rather 
surprise  one  of  them  by  a  pat  and  a  pleasant  morsel, 
than  meet  the  condescending  advances  of  the  loveliest 
Skye-terrier  who  has  his  cushion  by  my  lady's  chair. 
That,  to  be  sure,  is  not  the  way  of  the  world:  if  it 
happens  to  see  a  fellow  of  line  proportions  and  aris- 
tocratic mien,  who  makes  no  fautpas,  and  wins  golden 
opinions  from  all  sorts  of  men,  it  straightway  picks 
out  for  him  the  loveliest  of  unmarried  women,  and 
says,  There  would  be  a  proper  match!  Not  at  all,  say 
I :  let  that  successful,  well-shapeu,  discreet  and  able 
gentleman  put  up  with  something  less  than  the  best  in 
the  matrimonial  department ;  and  let  the  sweet  woman 
go  to  make  sunshine  and  a  soft  pillow  for  the  poor 
devil  whose  legs  are  not  models,  whose  etl'orts  are 
often  blunders,  and  who  in  general  gets  more  kicks 
than  half-pence. 


G  AM  ox  DM:TOX. 

What  mortal  is  there  of  us,  who  would  find  his  sat- 
isfaction enhanced  by  an  opporlimity  of  comparing  the 
picture  he  presents  to  himself  of  his  own  doings.  with 
the  picture  they  make  on  the  mental  retina  of  his 
neighbors?  We  are  poor  plants  buoyed  up  by  the 
air-vessels  of  our  own  conceit  :  alas  for  us.  if  we  get  a 
few  j)inches  that  empty  us  of  that  windy  self->ub>i>t- 
cnce !  The  very  capacity  for  good  would  go  out  of 
us.  For.  tell  the  most  impassioned  orator,  suddenly, 
that  his  wig  is  awry,  or  his  shirt-hip  hanging  out,  and 
that  lie  is  tickling  people  by  tin-  oddity  of  his  person, 
instead  of  thrilling  them  by  the  energy  of  his  periods, 
and  you  would  infallibly  dry  up  the  spring  of  his  elo- 
quence. That  is  a  deep  and  wide  >ayinz:  that  no 
miracle  can  be  AV  rough  t  without  faith  —  without  the 
worker's  faith  in  himself,  as  well  as  the  recipient's 
faith  in  him.  And  the  greater  part  of  the  worker's 
faith  in  himself  is  made  up  of  the  faith  that  others  be- 
lieve in  him. 

Let  me  be  persuaded  that  my  neighbor  Jenkins  con- 
siders me  a  blockhead,  and  I  shall  never  >liine  in  coii- 
vcr.-ation  with  him  any  more.  Let  me  discover  that 
the  lovely  Plujebe  thinks  my  squint  intolerable,  and  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  lix  her  blandly  with  my  di>cii- 
gagi'd  eye  again. 

Thank  heaven,  then,  that  a  little  illu>i<>n  i-  left  to 
us,  to  enable  us  to  be  useful  and  agreeable  —  that  we 
don't  know  exactly  what  our  friend-^  think  of  us — that 
the  world  is  not  made  of  lookinir-ula-s.  to  >ho\v  us  just 
the  figure  we  are  making,  and  just  what  is  going  <>n 
oehiud  our  backs!  13 v  the  help  of  dear  friendly  illu- 


AMOS  BARTON.  7 

siou,  we  are  able  to  dream  that  we  are  charming  — 
arid  our  faces  wear  a  becoming  air  of  self-possession; 
we  are  able  to  dream  that  other  men  admire  our  tal- 
ents —  and  our  benignity  is  undisturbed ;  we  are  able 
to  dream  that  we  are  doing  much  good  —  and  we  do  a 
little. 


END  OP    "AMOS  BARTON.' 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY. 


IT  is  \vith  men  as  with  trees  :  if  you  lop  off  their 
finest  branches,  into  which  they  were  pouring  their 
young  life-juice,  the  wouiuls  will  be  healed  over  with 
some  rough  boss,  some  odd  excrescence;  and  what 
might  have  been  a  grand  tree  expanding  into  liberal 
shade,  is  but  a  whimsical  misshapen  trunk.  Many  an 
irritating  fault,  many  an  unlovely  oddity,  has  come  of 
a  hard  sorrow,  which  has  crushed  and  maimed  the 
nature  ju.-t  when  it  was  expanding  into  plenteous 
beauty;  and  the  trivial  erring  life  which  we  visii  with 
our  harsh  blame,  may  be  but  as  the  unsteady  motion 
of  a  man  whose  be>t  limb  is  withered. 


Alas,  alas!  we  poor  mortals  are  often  little  better 
than  wood-ashes  —  there  is  small  sign  of  the  sap,  and 
the  leafy  freshness,  and  the  bur>ting  buds  that  were 
once  there;  but  wherever  we  see  wood-a>hc-s.  we 
know  that  all  that  early  fulness  of  life  must  have  been. 
I,  at  least,  hardly  ever  look  at  a  bent  old  man.  or  a 
wizened  old  woman,  but  I  see  al-o.  with  my  mind's 
eye,  that  l'a>t  of  which  they  are  the  i-hruuken  rem- 
nant, and  the  unfinished  romance  of  ro-y  cheek's  ;uid 
bright  eyes  seems  sometimes  of  feeble.  interest  and 

(8) 


arn.  GTLFIUS  LOVE-STORY.  9 

significance,  compared  with  that  drama  of  hope  and 
love  which  has  long  ago  reached  its  catastrophe,  and 
left  the  poor  soul,  like  a  dim  and  dusty  stage,  with 
all  its  sweet  garden-scenes  and  fair  perspectives  over- 
turned and  thrust  out  of  sight. 


liich  brown  locks,  passionate  love,  and  deep  early 
sorrow,  strangely  diil'erent  as  they  seem  from  the 
scanty  white  hairs,  the  apathetic  content,  and  the  un- 
cxpectant  quiescence  of  old  age,  are  but  part  of  the 
same  life's  journey;  as  the  bright  Italian  plains,  with 
the  sweet  Addio  of  their  beckoning  maidens,  are  part 
of  the  same  day's  travel  that  brings  us  to  the  other 
side  of  the  mountain,  between  the  sombre  rocky  walls 
and  among  the  guttural  voices  of  the  Valais. 


The  inexorable  ticking  of  the  clock  is  like  the  throb 
of  pain  to  sensations  made  keen  by  a  sickening  fear. 
And  so  it  is  with  the  great  clockwork  of  nature. 
Daisies  and  buttercups  give  way  to  the  brown  waving 
grasses,  tinged  with  the  warm  red  sorrel;  the  waving 
grasses  are  swept  away,  and  the  meadows  lie  like 
emeralds  set  in  the  bushy  hedgerows:  the  tawny- 
tipped  corn  begins  to  bow  with  the  weight  of  the  full 
ear;  the  reapers  are  bending  amongst  it,  and  it  soon 
stands  in  sheaves;  then,  preseiiily  the  patches  of 
yellow  stubble  lie  side  by  side  with  streaks  of  dark- 
red  earth,  which  the  plough  is  turning-  up  hi  prepara- 
tion for  the  new-thrashed  seed.  And  this  passage 
from  beauty  to  beauty,  which  to  the  happy  is  like  the 
flow  of  a  melody,  measures  for  many  a  human  heart 


10  MR.   OIL  FUSS  LOVE-STORY. 

the  approach  of  foreseen  anguish  —  seems  hurrying  on 
the  moment  when  the  shadow  of  dread  will  be  fol- 
lowed up  by  the  reality  of  despair. 


All  earthly  things  have  their  lull:  even  on  nights 
when  the  most  unappeasable  wind  is  raging,  there  will 
be  a  moment  of  stillness  before  it,  crashes  among  the 
boughs  again,  and  storms  against  the  windows,  and 
howls  like  a  thousand  lost  demons  through  the  key- 
holes. 


A  mother  dreads  no  memories  —  those  shadows  have 
all  melted  away  in  the  dawn  of  Baby's  smile. 


Among  all  the  many  kinds  of  first  love,  that  which 
begins  in  childish  companionship  is  the  strongest  and 
most  enduring:  whim  passion  comes  to  unite  its  force 
to  long  affection,  love  is  at  its  spring-tide. 


In  the  love  of  a  brave  and  faithful  man  there  is 
always  a  strain  of  maternal  tenderness;  he  gives  out 
again  those  beams  of  protecting  fondness  which  were 
shed  on  him  as  he  lay  on  his  mother's  knee. 


The  delicate-tendrilled  plant  must  have  something 
to  cling  to. 


Human  longings  are  perversely  obstinate:  and  to 
the  man  whose  mouth  is  watering  for  a  peach,  it  is  of 
no  use  to  offer  the  largest  vegetable  marrow. 


JfX.   G1LFWS  LOVE-STORY.  \\ 

To  minds  on  the  Shepperton  level  it  is  repetition, 
not  novelty,  that  produces  the  strongest  effect;  and 
phrases,  like  tunes,  arc  a  long  time  making  themselves 
at  home  in  the  brain. 

" Ignorance,"  says  Ajax,  "is  a  painless  evil";  so,  I 
should  think,  is  dirt,  considering  the  merry  faces  that 
go  along  with  it. 


Animals  arc  such  agreeable  friends  —  they  ask  no 
questions,  they  pass  no  criticisms. 


There  are  few  of  us  that  arc  not  rather  ashamed  of 
our  sins  and  follies  as  we  look  out  on  the  blessed 
morning  sunlight,  which  comes  to  us  like  a  bright- 
winged  angel  beckoning  us  to  quit  the  old  path  of 
vanity  that  stretches  its  dreary  length  behind  us. 


It  is  a  wonderful  moment,  the  first  time  we  stand  by 
one  who  has  fainted,  and  witness  the  fresh  birth  of 
consciousness  spreading  itself  over  the  blank  features, 
like  the  rising  sunlight  on  the  alpine  summits  that  lay 
ghastly  and  dead  under  the  leaden  twilight.  A  slight 
shudder,  and  the  frost-bound  eyes  recover  their  liquid 
light;  for  an  instant  they  show  the  inward  semi-con- 
sciousness of  an  infant's;  then,  with  a  little  start,  they 
open  wider  and  begin  to  look  ;  the  present  is  visible, 
but  only  as  a  strange  writing,  and  the  interpreter 
Memory  is  not  yet  there. 


12  MK.  G1LFIVS  LOVE-STORY. 

We  have  all  our  secret  sins;  and  if  we  knew  our- 
selves, we  should  not  judge  each  other  harshly.1 


Our  thoughts  are  often  worse  than  we  arc,  just  us 
they  arc  often  bettor  than  we  are.  And  God  sees  us  as 
we  arc  altogether,  not  in  separate  fee-lings  or  actions, 
as  our  fellow-men  see  us.  Wo  arc  always  doing  each 
other  injustice,  and  thinking  better  or  worse  of  each 
other  than  we  deserve,  because  we  only  hear  and  see 
separate  words  and  actions.  We  don't  see  each 
other's  whole  nature.1 


Wo  can  hardly  learn  humility  and  tenderness  enough 
except  by  suffering.1 


Th'  yoong  men  noo-a-dcys,  Iho'rc  poor  squashy 
things — the' lookc  well  anoof,  but  the'  wooii't  wear, 
the'  woon't  wear.1 


EXD  OF  "MK.  GILTIL'S  LOVE-STORY." 


JAXET'S   REPENTANCE. 


TIIK  golden  moments  in  the  stream  of  life  rush  past 
us,  and  we  see  nothing  but  sand;  the  angels  come  to 
visit  us,  and  we  only  know  them  when  they  are  gone. 


Always  there  is  seed  being  sown  silently  and  un- 
seen, and  everywhere  there  come  sweet  ilowers  with- 
out our  foresight  or  labor.  We  reap  what  we  sow,  but 
Nature  has  love  over  and  above  that  justice,  and  gives 
us  shadow  and  blossom  and  fruit  that  spring  from  no 
planting  of  ours. 


In  the  man  whoso  childood  has  known  caresses 
there  is  ahvays  a  iibre  of  memory  that  can  be  touched 
to  gentle  issues. 


There  is  a  power  in  the  direct  glance  of  a  sincere 
and  loving  human  soul,  which  will  do  more  to  dissi- 
pate prejudice  and  kindle  charity  than  the  most  elab- 
orate arguments. 


The  tale  of  the  Divine  Pity  was  never  yet  believed 
from  lips  that  were  not  felt  to  be  moved  by  human 

pity- 


14  JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 

There  is  an  unspeakable  blending  of  sadness  and 
sweetness  in  the  smile  of  a  lace  sharpened  and  paled 
by  slow  consumption. 


Worldly  faces  never  look  so  worldly  as  at  a  funeral. 
They  have  the  same  effect  of  grating  incongruity  as 
the  sound  of  a  coarse  voice  breaking  the  solemn 
silence  of  night. 


There  arc  moments  when  by  some  strange  impulse 
we  contradict  our  past  selves —  fatal  moments,  when  a 
fit  of  passion,  like  a  lava  stream,  lays  low  the  work  of 
half  our  lives. 


Our  habitual  life  is  like  a  wall  hung  with  pictures, 
which  has  been  shone  on  by  the  suns  of  many  years ; 
take  one  of  the  pictures  away,  and  it  leaves  a  definite 
blank  space,  to  which  our  eyes  can  never  turn  without 
a  sensation  of  discomfort.  Xay.  the  involuntary  loss 
of  any  familiar  object  almost:  always  brings  a  chill  as 
from  an  evil  omen;  it  seems  to  be  the  first  finger- 
shadow  of  advancing  death. 


In  those  di.-tant  days,  as  in  all  other  times  and 
places  where  the  mental  atnio>phere  is  chaniiini;,  and 
men  arc  inhaling  the  stimulus  of  ne\v  ideas,  folly  ofieii 
mistook  itself  for  wisdom,  ignorance  gave  itself  airs 
of  knowledge,  and  scllWnicss,  turning  its  eyes  up- 
ward, called  itself  religion. 


Religious   ideas  have  the  fate  of   melodies,  which, 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  15 

oucc  set  afloat  in  the  world,  are  taken  up  l~>y  all  sorts 
of  instruments,  some  of  them  wofully  coarse,  feeble, 
or  out  of  tune,  until  people  are  in  danger  of  crying  out 
that  the  melody  itself  is  detestable. 


Opposition  may  become  sweet  to  a  man  when  he  has 
christened  it  persecution  :  a  self-obtrusive,  over-hasty 
reformer  complacently  disclaiming  all  merit,  while  his 
friends  call  him  a  martyr,  has  not  in  reality  a  career 
the  most  arduous  to  the  fleshly  mind. 


The  strong  emotions  from  which  the  life  of  a  human 
being  receives  a  new  bias,  win  their  victory  as  the  sea 
wins  his  :  though  their  advance  may  be  sure,  they  will 
often,  after  a  mightier  wave  than  usual,  seem  to  roll 
back  so  far  as  to  lose  all  the  ground  they  had  made. 


Nemesis  is  lame,  but  she  is  of  colossal  statm'e,  like 
the  gods ;  and  sometimes,  while  her  sword  is  not  yet 
unsheathed,  she  stretches  out  her  huge  left  arm  and 
grasps  her  victim.  The  mighty  hand  is  invisible,  but 
the  victim  totters  under  the  dire  clutch. 


What  scene  was  ever  commonplace  in  the  descend- 
ing sunlight,  when  color  has  awakened  from  its  noon- 
day sleep,  and  the  long  shadows  awe  us  like  a  disclosed 
presence?  Above  all,  what  scene  is  commonplace  to 
the  eye  that  is  filled  with  serene  gladness,  and  bright- 
ens all  things  with  its  own  joy? 


"When  we  are  suddenly  released  from  an  acute  ab- 


1C  JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 

sorbing  bodily  pain,  our  heart  and  senses  leap  out  in 
new  freedom:  we  think  even  the  noise  of  streets  har- 
monious, and  are  ready  to  hug  Uie  tradesman  who  is 
wrapping  up  our  change. 


It  is  a  sad  weakness  in  us,  after  all,  that  the  thought 
of  a  man's  death  hallows  him  anew  to  us;  as  if  life 
were  not  sacred  too  —  as  if  it.  were  comparatively  a 
light  thing  to  fail  in  love  and  reverence  to  the  brother 
who  has  to  climb  the  whole  toil>ome  steep  with  us, 
and  all  our  tears  and  tenderness  were  due  to  the  one 
who  is  spared  that  hard  journey. 


The  first  condition  of  human  goodness  is  somethini 
to  love;  the  second,  something  to  reverence. 


The  impulse  to  confession  almost  always  requires  the 

presence  of  a  fresh  ear  and  a  fresh  heart :  and  i:i  our 
moments  of  spiritual  need,  the  man  to  whom  we  have 
no  tie  but  our  common  nal  tire,  seems  nearer  to  u>  i  han 
mother,  brother,  or  friend.  Our  iliily  familiar  life  is 
but  a  hiding  of  ourselves  from  each  oilier  behind  a 
screen  of  trivial  words  and  deed<.  and  tho^e  \\\\">  Hi 
with  us  at  the  same  hearth  are  ol'ien  the  I'.'.rlheM  oil' 
from  the  deep  human  soul  v/iihiu  us,  full  of  un.-^ioken 
evil  and  unacted  good. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  17 

Blessed  influence  of  one  true  loving  human  soul  on 
another!  Not  calculable  by  algebra,  not  decluciblc  by 
logic,  but  mysterious,  effectual,  mighty  as  the  hidden 
process  by  which  the  tiny  seed  is  quickened,  and 
bursts  forth  into  tall  stem  and  broad  leaf,  and  glowing 
tasscled  flower.  Ideas  arc  often  poor  ghosts ;  our 
sun-filled  eyes  cannot  discern  them  ;  they  pass  athwart 
us  in  thin  vapor,  and  cannot  make  themselves  felt. 
But  sometimes  thcj'  are  made  flesh;  they  breathe 
upon  us  with  warm  breath,  tlicj'  touch  us  with  soft 
responsive  hands,  they  look  at  us  Avith  sad  sincere 
eyes,  and  speak  to  us  in  appealing  tones;  they  are 
clothed  in  a  living  human  soul,  with  all  its  conflicts, 
its  faith,  and  its  love.  Then  their  presence  is  a  power, 
then  they  shake  us  like  a  passion,  and  we  are  drawn 
after  them  with  gentle  compulsion,  as  flame  is  drawn 
to  flame. 


Surely,  surely  the  only  true  knowledge  of  our  fellow- 
man  is  that  which  enables  us  to  feel  Avith  him —  which 
gives  us  a  fine  ear  for  the  heart-pulses  that  are  beating 
under  the  mere  clothes  of  circumstance  and  opinion. 
Our  subtlest  analysis  of  schools  and  sects  must  miss 
the  essential  truth,  unless  it  be  lit  up  by  the  love  that 
sees  in  all  forms  of  human  thought  and  work,  the  life- 
and-death  struggles  of  separate  human  beings. 


Do   not   philosophic    doctors   tell  us    that   we  are 
unable  to  discern  so  much  as  a  tree,  except  by  an  un- 
conscious  cunning  which   combines    many   past   and 
separate  sensations  :  that  no  one  sense  is  independent 
2 


18  JAXKT'S  HEPKXTAXCE. 

of  another,  so  that  in  Hie  dark  wo  can  hardly  lasto  a, 
fricasee,  or  tell  whether  our  pipe  is  alight  or  not,  and 
tlie  most  intelligent  hoy,  if  accoiimiodatcil  witli  Haws 
or  hoofs,  instead  of  fi Hirers,  would  be  likely  to  remain 
on  the  lowest  form?  It'  so.  it  is  easy  to  understand 
that  our  discernment  of  men's  motives  must  depend 
on  the  completeness  of  the  elements  we  can  bring  from 
our  own  susceptibility  and  our  own  experience.  See 
to  it,  friend,  before  you  pronounce  a  too  hasty  judg- 
ment, that  your  own  moral  sensibilities  are  not  of  a 
hoofed  or  clawed  character.  The  keenest  eye  will  not 
serve,  unless  yon  have  the  delicate  fingers,  with  their 
subtle  nerve  filaments,  which  elude  scientific  lenses, 
and  lose  themselves  in  the  invisible  world  of  human 
sensations. 


Those  stirrings  of  the  more  kindly,  health}-  sap  of 
human  feeling,  by  which  goodness  tries  to  get  the 
upper  hand  in  us  whenever  it  seems  to  have  the  slight- 
est chance  —  on  Sunday  mornings,  perhaps,  when  we 
are  set  free  from  the  grinding  hurry  of  the  week,  and 
take  the  little  three-year-old  on  our  knee  at  breakfast 
to  share  our  egg  and  nmiiin:  in  moments  of  trouble, 
when  death  visits  our  roof,  or  illness  makes  us  de- 
pendent on  the  tending  hand  of  a  slighted  wife;  in 
quiet  talks  with  an  aged  mother,  of  the  days  when  we 
stood  at  her  knee  with  our  lirst  picture-book,  or  wrote 
her  loving  letters  from  school. 


The  strongest  heart  will  faint  sometimes  under  the 
feeling  that  enemies  are  bitter,  and  that  friends  only 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  19 

know  half  its  sorrows.  The  most  resolute  soul  will 
now  and  then  cast  back  a  yearning  look  in  treading 
the  rough  mountain-path,  away  from  the  greensward 
and  laughing  voices  of  the  valley. 


The  daylight  changes  the  aspect  of  misery  to  us,  as 
of  everything  else.  In  the  night  it  presses  on  our 
imagination  —  the  forms  it  takes  are  false,  fitful,  ex- 
aggerated :  in  broad  day  it  sickens  our  sense  with  the 
dreary  persistence  of  definite  measurable  reality.  The 
man  who  looks  with  ghastly  horror  on  all  his  property 
aflame  in  the  dead  of  night,  has  not  half  the  sense  of 
destitution  he  will  have  in  the  morning,  when  lie  walks 
over  the  ruins  lying  blackened  in  the  pitiless  sunshine. 


It  was  probably  a  hard  saying  to  the  Pharisees,  that 
"there  is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  rc- 
penteth,  than  over  ninety  and  nine  just  persons  that 
need  no  repentance."  And  certain  ingenious  philos- 
ophers of  our  own  day  must  surely  take  offence  at  a 
joy  so  entirely  out  of  correspondence  with  arithmetical 
proportion.  But  a  heart  that  has  been  taught  by  its 
own  sore  struggles  to  bleed  for  the  woes  of  another — 
that  has  "learned  pity  through  suffering"  —  is  likely 
to  find  very  imperfect  satisfaction  in  the  "balance  of 
happiness,"  "doctrine  of  compensations,"  and  other 
short  and  easjr  methods  of  obtaining  thorough  com- 
placency in  the  presence  of  pain ;  and  for  such  a  heart 
that  saying  will  not  be  altogether  dark.  The  emo- 
tions, I  have  observed,  are  but  slightly  influenced  by 
arithmetical  considerations :  the  mother,  when  her 


20  JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 

sweet  lisping  little  ones  have  all  been  taken  from  her 
one  after  another,  and  she  is  hanging  over  her  last 
dead  babe,  finds  small  consolation  in  the  fact  that  the 
tiny  dimpled  corpse  is  but  one  of  a  necessary  average, 
and  that  a  thousand  other  babes  brought  into  the 
world  at  the  same  time  arc  doing  well,  and  are  likely 
to  live;  and  if  you  stood  beside  that  mother — if  you 
knew  her  pang  and  shared  it  —  it  is  probable  yon  would 
be  equally  unable  to  sec  a  ground  of  complacency  in 
statistics. 

Doubtless  a  complacency  rot  in::  on  that  basis  is 
highly  rational;  but  emotion.  I  fear,  is  obstinately 
irrational :  it  insists  on  caring  for  individuals;  it  abso- 
lutely refuses  to  adopt  the  quantitative  view  of  human 
anguish,  and  to  admit  that  thirteen  happy  lives  are  a 
set-off  against  twelve  miserable  lives,  which  leaves  a 
clear  balance  on  the  side  of  satisfaction.  This  is  the 
inherent  imbecility  of  feeling,  and  one  must  be  a  great 
philosopher  to  have  got  quite  clear  of  all  that,  and  to 
have  emerged  into  the  serene  air  of  pure  intellect,  in 
which  it  is  evident  that  individuals  really  exist  for  no 
other  purpose  than  that  abstractions  may  be  drawn 
from  them  —  abstractions  that  may  rise  from  heaps  of 
ruined  lives  like  the  sweet  savor  of  a  sacriiice  in  the 
nostrils  of  philosophers,  and  of  a  philosophic  Deity. 
And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that  for  the  man  who  knows 
sympathy  because  he  has  known  sorrow,  that  old,  old 
saying  about  the  joy  of  angels  over  the  repentant  .--in- 
ner outweighing  their  joy  over  the  ninety-nine  jn>t,  lias 
a  meaning  which  does  not  jar  with  the  language  of  his 
own  heart.  It  only  tells  him,  that  for  angels  too  there 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  21 

is  a  transcendent  value  in  human  pain,  which  refuses 
to  be  settled  by  equations ;  that  the  eyes  of  angels  too 
are  turned  away  from  the  serene  happiness  of  the 
righteous  to  bend  with  yearning  pity  on  the  poor 
erring  soul  wandering  in  the  desert  where  no  water 
is;  that  for  angels  too  the  misery  of  one  casts  so  tre- 
mendous a  shadow  as  to  eclipse  the  bliss  of  ninety- 
nine. 


No  wonder  the  sick-room  and  the  lazaretto  have  so 
often  been  a  refuge  from  the  tossings  of  intellectual 
doubt  —  a  place  of  repose  for  the  worn  and  wounded 
spirit.  Here  is  a  duty  about  which  all  creeds  and  all 
philosophies  are  at  one:  here,  at  least,  the  conscience 
will  not  be  dogged  by  doubt,  the  benign  impulse  will 
not  be  checked  by  adverse  theory  :  here  you  may  begin 
to  act  without  settling  one  preliminary  question.  To 
moisten  the  sufferer's  parched  lips  through  the  long 
night-watches,  to  bear  up  the  drooping  head,  to  lift 
the  helpless  limbs,  to  divine  the  want  that  can  find  no 
utterance  beyond  the  feeble  motion  of  the  hand  or 
beseeching  glance  of  the  eye  —  these  are  offices  that 
demand  no  self-questionings,  no  casuistry,  no  assent  to 
propositions,  no  weighing  of  consequences.  Within 
the  four  walls  where  the  stir  and  glare  of  the  world  are 
shut  out,  and  every  voice  is  subdued  —win.' re  a  human 
being  lies  prostrate,  thrown  on  the  tender  mercies  of 
his  fellow,  the  moral  relation  of  man  to  man  is  reduced 
to  its  utmost  clearness  and  simplicity:  bigotry  cannot 
confuse  it,  theory  cannot  pervert  it,  passion,  awed  into 
quiescence,  can  neither  pollute  nor  perturb  it.  As  wo 


2  2  JA  -\7;  T'S  A' KPEXTA XCE. 

bend  over  the  sick-bed,  ;ill  tlic  forces  of  our  nature 
rush  towards  the  channels  of  pity,  of  patience,  and  of 
love,  and  sweep  down  the  miserable  choking  drift  of 
onr  quarrels,  our  debates,  our  would-be  wisdom,  and 
our  clamorous  selfish  desires.  This  blessing  of  serene 
freedom  from  the  importunities  of  opinion  lies  in  all 
simple  direct  acts  of  mercy,  and  is  one  source  of  that 
sweet  calm  which  is  often  felt  by  the  watcher  in  the 
sick-room,  even  when  the  duties  there  are  of  a  hard 
and  terrible  kind. 


The  idea  of  duty,  that  recognition  of  something  to 
be  lived  for  beyond  the  mere  satisfaction  of  self,  is  to 
the  moral  life  what  the  addition  of  a  great  central 
ganglion  is  to  animal  life.  Xo  man  can  begin  to  mould 
himself  on  a  faith  or  an  idea  without  rising  to  a  higher 
order  of  experience  :  a  principle  of  subordination,  of 
self-mastery,  lias  been  introduced  into  his  nature;  lie 
is  no  longer  a  mere  bundle  of  impressions,  desires, 
and  impulses. 


The  blessed  "work  of  helping  the  world  forward, 
happily  does  not  wait  to  be  done  by  perfect  men  :  and 
I  should  imagine  that  neith'T  Luther  nor  John  Ilunyan, 
for  example,  would  have  satisfied  the  modern  demand 
for  an  ideal  hero,  who  believes  nothing  but  what  is 
true,  feels  nothing  but  what  i-  exalted,  and  does  noth- 
ing but  what  is  graceful.  The  real  heroes.  uf  Clod's 
making,  are  quite  dill'erent:  they  have  their  natural 
heritage  of  love  and  conscience  which  they  drew  in 
with  their  mother's  milk;  they  know  one  or  two  of 


JAXRT'S  REPEXTAXCE.  23 

those  deep  spiritual  truths  which  are  only  to  be  won  by 
long  wrestling  with  their  own  sins  and  their  o\vn  sor- 
rows; they  have  earned  faith  and  strength  so  far  as 
they  have  done  genuine  work;  but  the  rest  is  dry 
barren  theory,  blank  prejudice,  vague  hearsay.  Their 
insight  is  blended  with  mere  opinion ;  their  sympathy 
is  perhaps  confined  in  narrow  conduits  of  doctrine, 
instead  of  flowing  forth  with  the  freedom  of  a  stream 
that  blesses  every  weed  in  its  course;  obstinacy  or 
self-assertion  Avill  often  interfuse  itself  with  their 
grandest  impulses;  and  their  very  deeds  of  self-sac- 
rifice are  sometimes  only  the  rebound  of  a  passionate 
egoism. 


Convenience,  that  admirable  branch  system  from  the 
main  line  of  self-interest,  makes  us  all  fellow-helpers 
in  spite  of  adverse  resolutions.  It  is  probable  (hat  no 
speculative  or  theological  hatred  would  be  ultimately 
strong  enough  to  resist  the  persuasive  power  of  con- 
venience :  that  a  latitudinarian  baker,  whose  bread 
was  honorably  free  from  alum,  would  command  the 
custom  of  any  dyspeptic  Puseyite ;  that  an  Arminian 
with  the  toothache  would  prefer  a  skilful  Calvinistic 
dentist  to  a  bungler  stanch  against  the  doctrines  of 
Election  and  Final  Perseverance,  who  would  be  likely 
to  break  the  tooth  in  his  head;  and  that  a  Plymouth 
Brother,  who  had  a  well-furnished  grocery  shop  in  a 
favorable  vicinage,  would  occasionally  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  furnishing  sugar  or  vinegar  to  orthodox  fam- 
ilies that  found  themselves  unexpectedly  "out  of" 
these  indispensable  commodities. 


24  JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 

The  drowning  man,  urged  by  tlic  supreme  agony, 
lives  in  :in  instant  through  all  his  happy  and  unhappy 
past:  when  the  dark  Hood  has  fallen  like  a  curtain, 
memory,  in  a  single  moment,  sees  the  drama  acted 
over  again.  And  even  in  those  earlier  crises,  which 
a/e  but  types  of  death  —  when  we  are  cut  oil'  abruptly 
from  the  life  we  have  known,  when  we  can  no  longer 
expect  to-morrow  to  resemble  yesterday,  and  lind  our- 
selves by  some  sudden  shock  on  the  confines  of  the 
unknown  —  there  is  often  the  same  sort  of  lightning- 
flash  through  the  dark  and  unfrequented  chambers  of 
memory. 


In  this  artificial  life  of  ours,  it  is  not  often  we  sec  a 
human  face  with  all  a  heart's  agony  in  it,  uncontrolled 
by  self-consciousness ;  when  we  do  see  it,  it  startles 
us  as  if  we  had  suddenly  waked  into  the  real  world  of 
•which  this  every-day  one  is  but  a  puppet-show  copy. 


Janet  had  that  enduring  beauty  which  belongs  to 
pure  majestic  outline  and  depth  of  tint.  Sorrow  and 
neglect  leave  their  traces  on  such  beauty,  but  it  thrills 
us  to  the  last,  like  a  glorious  Greek  temple,  which,  for 
all  the  loss  it  has  suli'ered  from  time  and  barbarous 
hands,  has  gained  a  solemn  history,  and  (ills  our  imag- 
ination the  more  because  it  is  incomplete  to  the  sense. 


There  are  unseen  elements  which  often  frustrate  our 
wisest  calculat  ions  —  which  raise  up  the  sullercr  from 
the  edge  of  the  grave,  contradicting  the  prophecies  of 
the  clear-sighted  physician,  and  fulfilling  the  blind 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  25 

clinging  hopes  of  affection  ;  such  unseen  elements  Mr. 
Tryan  called  the  Divine  Will,  and  lilled  up  the  margin 
of  ignorance  which  surrounds  all  our  knowledge  with 
the  feelings  of  trust  and  resignation.  Perhaps  the  pro- 
fouudest  philosophy  could  hardly  lill  it  up  better. 


History,  we  know,  is  apt  to  repeat  herself,  and  to 
foist  very  old  incidents  upon  us  with  only  a  slight 
change  of  costume.  From  the  time  of  Xerxes  down- 
wards, we  have  seen  generals  playing  the  braggadocio 
at  the  outset  of  their  campaigns,  and  conquering  the 
enemy  with  the  greatest  ease  in  after-dinner  speeches. 
But  events  are  apt  to  be  in  disgusting  discrepancy  with 
the  anticipations  of  the  most  ingenious  tacticians;  the 
diiliculties  of  the  expedition  are  ridiculously  at  variance 
with  able  calculations;  the  enemy  has  the  impudence 
not  to  fall  into  confusion,  as  had  been  reasonably  ex- 
pected of  him  ;  the  mind  of  the  gallant  general  begins 
to  be  distracted  by  news  of  intrigues  against  him  at 
home,  and  notwithstanding  the  handsome  compliments 
he  paid  to  Providence  as  his  undoubted  patron  before 
setting  out,  there  seems  every  probability  that  the  Te 
Dcums  will  be  all  on  the  other  side. 


Heaven  knows  what  would  become  of  our  sociality 
if  we  never  visited  people  we  speak  ill  of:  we  should 
live,  like  Egyptian  hermits,  in  crowded  solitude. 


Errors  look  so  very  ugly  in  persons  of  small  means 
—  one  feels  they  arc  taking  quite  a  liberty  in  going 
astray ;  whereas  people  of  fortune  may  naturally  iu.- 


2G  JAXET'S  REPEXTAXCE. 

dulge  in  a  few  delinquencies.  "They've  got  the  money 
for  it,"  as  the  girl  said  of  liev  mistress  who  had  made 
herself  ill  with  pickled  salmon. 


Hatred  is  like  fire  —  it  makes  even  light  rubbish 
deadly. 


I've  nothing  to  say  again'  her  piety,  my  dear;  but  I 
know  very  well  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  cook  my  victual. 
When  a  man  comes  in  hungry  an'  tired,  piety  won't 
feed  him,  I  reckon.  Hard  carrots  'nil  lie  heavy  on  his 
stomach,  piety  or  no  piety.  I  called  in  one  day  when 
she  was  dishin'  np  Mr.  Tryan's  dinner,  an'  I  could  see 
the  potatoes  was  as  watery  as  watery.  It's  right 
enough  to  be  f-peritial  —  I'm  no  enemy  to  that;  but  I 
like  my  potatoes  mealy.  I  don't  see  as  anybody  'nil 
go  to  heaven  the  sooner  for  not  digestin' their  dinner 
—  providin'  they  don't  die  sooner,  as  mayhap  Mr. 
Tryan  will,  poor  dear  man.1 


I'd  reiher  given  ti'ii  shillin' an' help  a  man  to  stand 
on  his  o\vn  legs,  nor  pay  hah'-a-cr<>\vn  lo  buy  him  a 
parish  crutch;  ii's  the  ruina'ion  on  him  if  he  once 
goes  to  the  parish.  I've  see'd  many  a  lime,  il'ymi  help 
a  man  wi'  a  present  in  a  neeborly  way,  it  sweetens  his 
blood  —  he  thinks  it  kind  on  you;  but  the  parish 
shillins  turn  it  sour  —  he  niver  thinks  'em  enough.2 


JAXET'S  REPEXTAyCE.  27 


Don't  let  us  rejoice  in  punishment,  even  when  the 
hum  I  of  Gad  alone,-  inflicts  it.  The  best  of  us  are  but 
poor  wretches  just  saved  from  shipwreck  :  can  we  feel 
anything  but  awe  and  pity  when  we  see  a  fellow-pas- 
senger swallowed  by  the  waves?  4 


As  long  as  we  set  up  our  own  will  and  our  own  wis- 
dom against  God's,  we  make  that  wall  between  us  and 
his  love  which  I  have  spoken  of  just  now.  But  as 
soon  as  we  lay  ourselves  entirely  at  his  feet,  we  have 
enonu'li  light  given  us  to  guide  our  own  steps;  as  the 
foot-soldier  w'io  hears  nothing  of  the  councils  that  de- 
termine the  course  of  the  great  battle  he  is  in,  hears 
plainly  enough  the  word  of  command  which  he  must 
himself  obey.4 


My  mind  showed  me  it  was  just  such  as  I  —  the  help- 
less who  feel  themselves  helpless  —  that  God  specially 
invites  to  come  to  him,  and  offers  all  the  riches  of  his 
salvation  :  not  forgiveness  only;  forgiveness  would  be 
worth  little  if  it  left  us  under  the  powers  of  our  evil 
passions;  but  strength  —  that  strength  which  enables 
us  to  conquer  sin.4 

END  OF  "  JAXKT'S  UEI-EXTAXCE." 


ADAM   BEDE. 

(29) 


ADAM    BEDE. 


"WHAT  greater  thing  is  there  for  two  human  souls, 
than  to  feel  that  they  are  joined  for  life  —  to  strengthen 
each  other  in  all  labor,  to  rest  on  each  other  in  all  sor- 
row, to  minister  to  each  other  in  all  pain,  to  be  one 
with  each  other  in  silent  unspeakable  memories  at  the 
moment  of  the  last  parting? 


That  adoration  which  a  young  man  gives  to  a  woman 
whom  he  feels  to  be  greater  and  better  than  himself, 
is  hardii"  distinguishable  from  religious  feeling.  What 
deep  and  worthy  love  is  so?  whether  of  woman  or 
child,  or  art  or  music.  Our  caresses,  our  tender  words, 
our  still  rapture  under  the  influence  of  autumn  sunsets, 
or  pillared  vis!  as,  or  (.'aim  majestic  statues,  or  Beetho- 
ven symphonies,  all  bring  with  them  the  consciousness 
that  they  are  mere  waves  and  ripples  in  an  unfathom- 
able, ocean  of  love  and  beauty;  our  emotion  in  ils 
keenest  moment  passes  from  expression  inlo  silence, 
our  iove  at  its  highest.  Hood  rushes  beyond  ils  object, 
and  loses  ilseli'in  the  sense  oi'divine  mystery. 

Js  it  any  wcakne.-^,  pr;:y,  to  l;r  wrought  0:1  by  ex- 
quisite music?  —  to  feel  its  wondrous  harmonies  search- 
ing the  subtlest  windings  of  your  soul,  the  delicate 
fibres  of  life  where  no  memory  can  penetrate,  and 


32  ADAJf  BEDE. 

binding  together  your  whole  being  past  and  present  in 
one  unspeakable  vibration  :  melt  ing  you  in  one  moment 
•with  r.il  the  tenderness,  all  the  love  that  has  been  scat- 
tered through  the  toilsome  years,  concentrating  in  one 
emotion  of  heroic  courage'  or  resignation  all  the  hard- 
learnt  lessons  of  self-renouncing  sympathy,  blending 
your  present  joy  with  past  sorrow,  and  your  jm^ent 
sorrow  with  all  your  past  joy?  If  not,  then  neither  is 
it  a  weakness  to  be  so  wrought  upon  by  the  exquisite 
curves  of  a  woman's  cheek  and  neck  and  arms,  by  the 
liquid  depths  of  her  beseeching  eyes,  or  the  sweet 
childish  pout  of  her  lips.  For  the  beauty  of  a  lovely 
woman  is  like  music  :  what  can  one  say  more?  Beauty 
has  an  expression  beyond  and  far  above  the  one  wo- 
man's soul  that  it  clothes,  as  the  words  of  genius  have 
a  wider  meaning  than  the  thought  that  prompted  them  : 
it  is  more  than  a  woman's  love  that  moves  us  in  a  wo- 
man's eyes  —  it  seems  to  be  a  far-oil'  mighty  love  that 
lias  come  near  to  us,  and  made  speech  for  itself  there ; 
the  rounded  neck,  the  dimpled  arm,  move  us  by  some- 
thing more  than  their  prettiness  —  by  their  close  kin- 
ship with  all  we  have  known  of  tenderness  and  peace. 
The  noblest  nature  sees  the  most  of  this  im)v.rsnn'il 
expression  in  beauty  (it  is  needless  to  say  that  there 
are  gentlemen  with  whiskers  dyed  and  undyed  who  see 
none  of  it  whatever),  and  for  this  reason,  the  noblest 
nature  is  often  the  most  blinded  to  the  character  of  the 
one  woman's  soul  that  the  beauty  clothes.  Whence,  I 
fear,  the  tragedy  of  human  life  is  likely  to  continue  l'>r 
a  long  time  to  come,  iu  spite  of  mental  philosophers, 


ADAM  BEDE.  33 


who  are  ready  with  Ihe  best  receipts  for  avoiding  all 
mistakes  of  the  kind. 


The  first  sense  of  mutual  love  excludes  other  feel- 
ings ;  it  will  have  the  soul  all  to  itself. 


How  is  it  that  the  poets  have  said  so  many  fine  things 
about  our  first  love,  .so  few  about  our  later  love?  Are 
their  fir^t  poems  their  best?  or  arc  not  those  the  best 
which  come  from  their  fuller  thought,  their  larger  ex- 
perience, their  deeper-rooted  affections?  The  boy's 
flute-like  voice  has  its  own  spring  charm ;  but  the  man 
should  yield  a  richer,  deeper  music. 


Our  love  is  inwrought  in  our  enthusiasm  as  elec- 
tricity is  inwrought  in  the  air,  exalting  its  power  by  a 
subtle  presence. 


The  man  who  awakes  the  wondering  tremulous  pas- 
sion of  a  young  girl  alwa}'S  thinks  her  affectionate. 


We  look  at  the  one  little  woman's  face  we  love,  as 
we  look  at  the  face  of  our  mother  earth,  and  see  all 
sorts  of  answers  to  our  own  yearnings. 


Love  has  a  way  of  cheating  itself  consciously,  like  a 
child  \vho  plays  at  solitary  hide-and-seek  ;  it  is  pleased 
with  assurances  that  it  all  the  while  disbelieves. 


It  is  generally  a  feminine  eye  that  first  detects  the 

3 


moral  deficiencies  hidden  under  tlie  "  d'-ar  deerii"  <>f 
beauty. 


There  are  various  orders  of  beauty,  causing  men  to 
make  fools  of  themselves  in  various  styles,  from  the 
desperate  to  the  >heepi>h ;  but  there  is  one  order  of 
beauty  which  seems  made  to  turn  the  heads  not  only 
of  men,  but  of  all  intelligent  mammals,  even  of  women. 
It  is  a  beauty  like  that  of  ki! tens,  or  very  small  downy 
ducks  making  gentle  rippling  noises  with  their  soft 
bills,  or  babies  ju>t  beginning  to  toddle  and  to  engage 
in  con.-cious  mischief — a  beauty  with  which  you  can 
never  be  angry,  but  that  you  feel  ready  to  crush  for 
inability  to  comprehend  the  Male,  of  mind  into  which 
it  throws  YOU. 


Men's   muscles   move   better  when   their   souls  are 
making  merry  music. 


So  much  of  our  early  ghulne>>  vanishes  utterly  from 
our  memory  :  we  can  never  ivcall   tin;  joy  with  whieh 
we  laid   our  heads  on  our  mother's  bosom  or  rode  0:1 
our  father's  back  in   childhood:  iloubtle: 
wrought  u;>  into   our   nature,  as   i!r-  >u::'iu']r. of  !)::•:- 
past  mornings  is  wrought  up   in    the   soft   me;!  )\v:.;_ 
of  the  apricot ;  but  it  is  gone  forever  from  our  i.::ag- 
imition,  and  we  can  only  £/<://<. fe  in  the  joy  of  childhood. 


ADAH  BEDE.  3o 

But  the  first  glad  moment  in  our  first  love  is  a  vision 
which  returns  to  us  to  the  last,  and  brings  with  it  a 
thrill  of  feeling  intense  and  special  as  the  recurrent 
sensation  of  a  sweet  odor  breathed  in  a  far-off  hour 
of  happiness.  It  is  u  memory  that  gives  a  more  ex- 
quisite touch  to  tenderness,  that  i'eeds  the  madness  of 
jealousy,  and  adds  the  last  keenness  to  the  agony  of 
despair. 


Do  we  not  all  agree  to  call  rapid  thought  and  noble 
impulse  by  the  name  of  inspiration?  After  our  sub- 
tlest analysis  of  the  mental  process,  we  must  still  say 
that  our  highest  thoughts  and  our  best  deeds  are  all 
given  to  us. 


All  honor  and  reverence  to  the  divine  beauty  of 
form !  Let  us  cultivate  it  to  the  utmost  in  men,  wo- 
men, and  children —  in  our  gardens  and  in  our  houses. 
But  let  us  love  that  other  beauty  too,  which  lies  in  no 
secret  of  proporiion,  but  in  the  secret  of  deep  human 
sympathy.  Taint  us  an  angel,  if  you  can,  with  a  lloat- 
ing  violet  robe,  and  a  face  paled  by  the  celestial  light; 
paint  us  yet  oftener  a  Madonna,  turning  her  n;i!d  face, 
up'.vard  and  opening  her  arms  to  welcome  the  divine 
glory;  but.  do  not  impose  on  us  any  rostlit'iic  rules 
which  shall  banish  from  the  region  of  Art  those  old 
women  scraping  carrots  with  their  work-worn,  hands, 


36  ADAM  BEDE. 

those  heavy  clowns  taking  holiday  in  a  diniry  pot- 
house, those  rounded  backs  and  stupid  weather-beaten 
faces  that  have  bent  over  the  spade  and  done  the  rough 
work  of  the  world  —  those  homes  witli  their  tin  pans, 
their  brown  pitchers,  their  rough  curs,  and  their  clus- 
ters of  onions.  In  this  world  there  are  so  many  of 
these  common  coarse  people,  who  have  no  picturesque 
sentimental  wretchedness  !  It  is  so  needful  we  should 
remember  their  existence,  else  we  may  happen  to  leave 
them  quite  out  of  our  religion  and  philosophy,  and 
frame  lofty  theories  which  only  lit  a  world  of  extremes. 
Therefore  let  Art  always  remind  us  of  them  ;  therefore 
let  us  always  have  men  ready  to  give  the  loving  paius 
of  a  life  to  the  faithful  representing  of  commonplace 
things  —  men  who  see  beauty  in  these  commonplace 
things,  and  delight  in  showing  how  kindly  the  light  of 
heaven  falls  on  them.  There  are  few  prophets  iu  the 
world;  few  sublimely  beautiful  women  ;  few  heroes.  I 
can't  afford  to  give  all  my  love  and  reverence  to  such 
rarities  :  I  want  a  great  deal  of  those  feelings  for  my 
cvery-clay  fellow-men,  especially  for  the  few  in  the  fore- 
ground of  the  great  multitude,  whose  faces  I  know, 
whose  hands  I  touch,  for  whom  I  have  to  make  way 
with  kindly  courtesy.  Neither  are  picturesque  laz- 
zaroni  or  romantic  criminals  half  so  frequent  as  your 
common  laborer,  who  gets  his  own  bread,  and  cats  it 
vulgarly  but  creditably  with  his  own  pocket-knife.  It 
is  more  needful  tint  I  should  have  a  libre  of  .-ympnthy 
connecting  me  with  that  vulgar  citi/.en  who  wu_;!is  out 
my  sugar  in  a  vilely-assorted  cravat  and  waNtcoat, 
thaii  with  the  handsomest  rascal  iu  red  scarf  and  green 


ADA Jf  BEDE.  3  7 

feathers;  —  more  needful  that  my  heart  should  swell 
with  loving  admiration  at  some  trail  of  gentle  good- 
ness in  the  faulty  people-  who  sit  at  the  same  hcurlh 
with  me,  or  in  the  clergyman  of  my  own  parish,  who 
is  perhaps  rather  too  corpulent,  and  in  other  respects 
is  not  an  Oberliu  or  a  Tillotson,  than  at  the  deeds  of 
heroes  whom  I  shall  never  know  except  by  hearsay, 
or  at  the  sublimest  abstract  of  all  clerical  graces  that 
was  ever  conceived  by  an  able  novelist. 


Falsehood  is  so  easy,  truth  so  difficult.  The  pencil 
is  conscious  of  a  delightful  facility  in  drawing  a  griffin 
—  the  longer  the  claws  and  the  larger  the  wings,  the 
better:  but  that  marvellous  facility  which  we  mistook 
for  genius  is  apt  to  forsake  us  when  we  want  to  draw 
a  real  unexaggeratcd  lion.  Examine  your  words  well 
and  you  will  lind  that  even  when  you  have  no  motive 
to  be  false,  it  is  a  very  hard  thing  to  say  the  exact 
truth,  even  about  your  own  immediate  feelings  —  much 
harder  than  to  say  something  flue  about  them  which  is 
not  the  exact  truth. 

It  is  for  this  rare,  precious  quality  of  truthfulness 
that  I  delight  in  many  Dutch  paintings,  which  lofty- 
minded  people  despise.  I  lind  a  source  of  delicious 
sympathy  in  these  faithful  pictures  of  a  monotonous 
homely  existence,  which  has  been  the  fate  of  so  many 
more  among  my  fellow-mortals  than  a  life  of  pomp  or 
of  absolute  indigence,  of  tragic  suffering  or  of  world- 
stirring  actions.  I  turn,  without  shrinking,  from  cloud- 
borne  angels,  from  prophets,  sibyls,  and  heroic  war- 
riors, to  an  old  woman  bending  over  her  llower-pot, 


38  ADAM  LEDE. 

or  eating  her  solitary  dinner,  while  the  noonday  liccht, 
softened  perhaps  by  a  screen  of  leaves,  fulls  on  her 
mob-cap.  :i::(l  just  touches  the  ri:n  of  her  spinning- 
wheel,  and  II:T  stone  ju:z.  and  all  those  eliea;)  common 
things  which  arc  the  precious  necessaries  of  1  ;,',.>  i<> 
lier;  —  or  I  turn  to  I  hat  village  w«  ddinc,  k;-pt  bet\ve(  n 
four  brown  \vall.s,  where  an  awkward  bridegroom 
opens  the  dance  -with  a  high-shouldered.  l)ro;id-i'aced 
bride,  While  elderly  and  middle-a^cd  friends  look  on, 
with  very  irregular  noses  and  lips,  and  probably  with 
quart-pots  in  their  hands,  but  with  an  expression  of 
unmistakable  contentment  and  good-will. 


I  would  not,  even  if  I  had  the  choice,  be  the  clever 
novelist  who  could  create  a  world  so  ranch  better  than 
this,  in  which  we  get  up  in  the  morning  to  do  our  daily 
work,  that  you  would  be  likely  to  turn  a  harder,  cuider 
eye  on  the  dusty  .streets  and  the  common  green  lieuls 
—  on  the  real  breathing  men  and  women,  who  can  lie 
chilled  by  your  iudillerence,  or  injured  by  your  prej- 
udice; who  can  be  cheered  and  helped  onward  by 
your  fellow-feeling,  your  forbearance,  your  uutspoken, 
brave  justice. 


Human  nature  is  lovable,  and  the  way  I  have  learnt 
something  of  its  deep  pathos,  iis  siibii.ne  i:\y-~i  <.'i-\--. 
has  been  by  living  a  great  dral  ani.niir  p'  <>pl  •  m<>iv  <>r 
less  commonplace  and  vulgar,  of  whom  you  would 
perhaps  hear  nothing  very  surprising  it'  you  were  to 
inquire  about  them  in  the  neighborhoods  where  they 
dwelt.  Ten  to  ouc  most  of  the  small  shopkeepers  iu 


ADAM  EEDE.  30 

their  vicinity  saw  nothing  at  all  in  them.  For  I  have 
observed  this  remarkable;  coincidence,  that  the  select 
natures  who  pant  after  the  ideal,  and  find  nothing  in 
pantaloons  or  petticoats  great  enoiurh  to  command 
their  reverence  and  love,  aro  curiously  in  unison  \vitli 
the  narrowest  and  pettiest.  For  example,  I  have 
often  heard  Mr.  Gedge.  the  landlord  of  the  Koyal  Oak, 
who  used  to  turn  a  bloodshot  eye  on  his  neighbor.-  in 
the  village  of  Shepperton,  sum  up  his  opinion  of  the 
people  in  his  own  parish  —  and  they  were  all  the  peo- 
ple lie  knew — in  these  emphatic  words  :  ':-\y,  sir,  I've 
said  it  often,  and  I'll  say  it  again,  they're  a  poor  lot  i' 
this  parish  —  a  poor  lot,  sir,  big  and  little."  I  think  ho 
had  a  dim  idea  that  if  he  could  migrate  to  a  distant 
parish,  he  mi^ht  tind  neighbors  worthy  of  him;  and 
indeed  lie  did  subsequently  transfer  himself  to  the 
Saracen's  Head,  which  was  doing  a  thriving  business 
in  the  back  street  of  a  neighboring  market-town.  But, 
oddly  enough,  lie  has  found  the  people  up  that  back 
street  of  precisely  the  same  stamp  as  the  inhabitants 
of  Shepperton — "a  poor  lot,  sir,  big  and  little,  and 
them  as  comes  for  a  go  o'  gin  are  no  better  than  them 
as  comes  for  a  pint  o'  twopenny  — a  poor  lot." 


40  ADAM  BEDS. 

We  arc  often  startled  by  the  severity  of  milcl  people 
on  exceptional  occasions;  the  reason  is,  that,  mild 
people  are  most  liable  to  be  under  (lie  yoke  of  tradi- 
tional impressions. 


Susceptible  persons  are  more  affected  by  a  change 
of  tone  than  by  unexpected  words. 


The  vainest  woman  is  never  thoroughly  conscious 
of  her  own  beauty  till  she  is  loved  by  the  man  who 
sets  her  own  passion  vibrating  in  return. 


If  yon  feed  your  young  .setter  on  raw  flesh,  how  can 
you  wonder  at  its  retaining  a  relish  for  uncooked  par- 
tridge in  after-life? 


I  believe  there  have  been  men  who  have  ridden  a 
long  way  to  avoid  a  rencontre,  and  then  galloped  hastily 
back  lest  they  should  miss  it.  It  is  the  favorite  strat- 
agem of  our  passions  to  sham  a  retreat,  and  to  turn, 
sharp  round  upon  us  at  the  moment  we  have  made  up 
our  minds  that  the  (lav  is  our  own. 


Our  deeds  determine  us,  as  much  as  we  determine 
our  deeds;  and  until  we  know  what  has  been  or  will 
be  the  peculiar  combination  of  outward  with  inward 
facts,  which  constitutes  a  man's  critical  actions,  it  will 
be  better  not  to  think  ourselves  wise  about  his  char- 
acter. There  is  a  terrible  coercion  in  our  deeds  which 
may  first  turn  the  honest  man  into  a  deceiver,  and 
then  reconcile  him  to  the  change;  for  this  reason  — 


AD  AX  HE  DE.  41 

that  the  second  wrong  presents  itself  to  him  in  the 
guise  of  the  only  practicable  right.  The  action  which 
before  commission  has  been  seen  vrii.li  that  blended 
common-sense  and  iVesh  untarnished  feeling  which  is 
the  healihy  eye  of  the  soul,  is  looked  at  afterwards 
with  the  lens  of  apologetic  ingenuity,  through  which 
all  things  that  men  call  beautiful  -ind  ugly  are  seen  to 
be  made  up  of  textures  very  much  alike.  Ktirope  ad- 
justs iiself  to  u  fait  accompli,  and  so  does  an  individual 
character, — until  the  placid  adjustment  is  disturbed 
bv  a  convulsive  retribution. 


The  strength  of  the  donkey  mind  lies  in  adopting  a 
course  inversely  as  the  arguments  urged,  which,  well 
considered,  requires  as  great  a  mental  force  as  the 
direct  sequence. 


Surely  all  other  leisure  is  hurry  compared  with  a 
sunny  wall;  ihrough  the  lields  from  ''afternoon  church," 
—  as  such  walks  used  to  be  in  those  old  leisurely 
times,  when  the  boat,  gliding  sleepily  along  the  canal, 
was  the  newest  locomotive  wonder:  when  Sunday 
books  had  most  of  them  old  brown-leather  covers,  and 
opened  with  remarkable  precisi  >n  always  in  one  place. 
Leisure  is  gone  —  gone  where  the  spinning-wheels  are 
gone,  and  the  pack-horses,  and  the  slow  wagons,  and 
the  pedlers,  who  brought  b.irg.ii::s  to  i'.u  door  0:1 
sunny  afternoons.  Ingenious  philosophers  tell  you. 
perhaps,  that  the  great  work  of  th  '  sream-enginc  i  ;  to 
create  leisure  for  mankind.  Do  no;  believe  them:  li 
only  creates  a  vacuum  for  eager  thought  to  rush  in. 


42  ADAJf  BEDE. 

Even  idleness  is  eager  now  —  eager  for  amusement: 
prone  to  excursion-trains,  art-mviM'ums,  periodical  lit- 
erature. a;ul  exciting  novels;  prone  even  to  scientific 
thcori/.ing,  and  cursory  peeps  through  mierosco])rs. 
Old  Leisure  was  quite  u  diUercnt  personage:  lie  only 
read  one  newspaper,  innocent  of  leaders,  and  was  free 
from  that  periodicity  of  sensations  which  we  call  post- 
time,  lie  was  a  contemplative,  rather  stout,  penile- 
man,  of  excellent  digestion, —  of  quiet  perceptions, 
undiseased  by  hypothesis:  happy  in  his  inability  to 
know  the  causes  of  things,  preferring  the  things  them- 
selves, lie  lived  chieily  in  the  country,  among  pleas- 
ant seats  and  homesteads,  and  was  fond  of  sauntering 
by  the  fruit-tree  wall,  and  scenting  the  apricots  when 
they  were  warmed  by  the  morning  sunshine,  or  of 
sheltering  himself  under  the  orchard  boughs  ut  noon, 
when  I  lie  summer  pears  were  falling,  lie  knew  noth- 
ing of  week-day  services,  and  thought  none  the  worse 
of  the  Sunday  sermon  if  it  allowed  him  to  sleep  from 
the  text  to  the  blessing — liking  the  afternoon  service 
best,  because  the  prayers  were  the  shortest,  and  not 
.ashamed  to  say  so  ;  for  he  had  an  easy,  jolly  conscience, 
broad-backed  like  himself,  and  able  to  carry  a  great 
deal  of  beer  or  port-wine,  —  not  being  made  sqneami>h 
by  doubts  and  qualms  and  loi'y  aspirations.  Life  wa> 
not  a  task  to  him.  but  a  sinecure:  he  ling<T<  d  the 
guineas  in  his  pocket,  and  ate  his  dinners,  and  slcpi 
the  sleep  of  the  irresponsible;  for  had  in-  not  kept  up 
his  charter  by  going  to  church  on  the  .Sunday  after- 
noons? 
Fine  old  Leisure  !  Do  not  be  severe  upon  him,  and 


EEDE.  43 

judge  him  by  our  modern  standard  :  he  never  went  to 
Exeter  Hall,  or  heard  a  popular  preacher,  or  read 
Tracts  fur  the  Times  or  Sartor  liesartus. 


Nemesis  can  seldom  forge  a  sword  for  herself  out  of 
cur  consciences  —  out  of  the  suffering  we  feel  in  the 
suffering  we  may  have  caused  :  there  is  rarely  metal 
enough  there  to  make  an  effective  weapon.  Our  moral 
sense  learns  the  manners  of  good  society,  and  smiles 
when  others  smile  ;  but  when  some  rude  person  gives 
rough  names  to  our  actions,  she  is  apt  to  take  part 
against  us. 


Women  who  are  never  bitter  and  resentful  are  often 
the  most  querulous;  and  if  Solomon  was  as  wise  as 
he  is  reputed  to  be,  I  feel  .sure  that  when  he  compared 
a  contentious  woman  to  a  continual  dropping  on  a  very 
rainy  day,  he  had  not  a  vixen  in  his  eye  —  a  fury  with 
long  nails,  acrid  and  selfish.  Depend  upon  it,  he 
meant  a  good  creature,  who  had  no  joy  but  in  the 
happiness  of  the  loved  ones  whom  she  contributed  to 
make  uncomfortable,  putting  by  all  the  tid-bits  for 
them,  and  spending  nothing  on  herself.  Such  a  woman 
as  Lisbeth  for  example  —  at  once  patient  and  com- 
plaining, self-renouncing  and  exacting,  brooding  the 
live-long  day  over  what  happened  yesterday,  and  what 
is  likely  to  happen  to-morrow,  and  crying  veiy  readily 
both  at  the  good  and  the  evil. 


One  of  the  lessons  a  woman  most  rarely  learns,  is 
never  to  talk  to  an  angry  or  a  drunken  man. 


44  ADAM  BEDE. 

It  is  our  habit  to  say  that  while  the  lower  nature  ran 
never  understand  the  higher,  the  higher  nature  com- 
mands a  complete  view  of  the  lower.  IJut  I  think  the 
higher  nature  has  to  learn  this  comprehension,  as  we 
learn  the  art  of  vision,  by  a  good  deal  of  hard  expe- 
rience,often  with  bruises  and  Cashes  incurred  in  taking 
things  up  by  the  wrong  end,  and  fancying  our  space 
wider  than  it  is. 


Deep,  unspeakable  suffering  may  well  be  called  a 
baptism,  a  regeneration,  the  initiation  into  a  new 
state. 


It  is  not  jgnoblc  to  feel  that  the  fuller  life  which  a 
sad  experience  has  brought  us  is  worth  our  own  per- 
sonal share  of  pain  :  surely  it  is  not  possible  to  J'eel 
otherwise,  any  more  than  it  would  be  possible  for  a 
man  with  cataract  to  regret  the  painful  process  by 
which  his  dim  blurred  sight  of  men  as  trees  walking 
had  been  exchanged  for  clear  outline  and  effulgent 
dav.  The  growth  of  higher  lVeliir_j  within  us  is  like 
the  growth  of  faculty,  bringing  with  it  a  sense,  of 
added  strength:  we  can  no  more  wi-h  to  return  to  a 
narrower  sympathy,  than  a  painter  or  a  musician  can 
wi-h  to  rcUi.'ii  to  his  cruder  manner,  or  a  philosopher 
to  his  less  complete  formula. 


Adam  Bede  had  not  outlived  his  sorrow  —  had  not 


AD  AIT  EEDE.  45 

felt  it  clip  from  him  as  a  temporary  burden,  and  leave 
him  the  same  man  again.  Do  any  of  us?  God  forbid. 
It  would  be  a  poor  result  of  all  our  anguish  and  our 
wrestling,  if  we  won  nothing  but  our  old  selves  at  the 
end  of  it  —  if  we  coulcl  return  to  the  same  blind  loves, 
the  same  self-confident  blame,  the  same  light  thoughts 
of  human  suffering,  the  same  frivolous  gossip  over 
blighted  human  lives,  the  same  feeble  sense  of  that 
Unknown  towards  which  we  have  sent  forth  irrepres- 
sible cries  in  our  loneliness.  Let  us  rather  be  thank- 
ful that  our  sorrow  lives  in  us  as  an  indestructible  force, 
only  changing  its  form,  as  forces  do,  and  passing  from 
pain  into  sympathy  —  the  one  poor  word  which  in- 
cludes all  our  best  insight  and  our  best  love. 


In  our  eagerness  to  explain  impressions,  we  often 
lose  our  hold  of  the  sympathy  that  comprehends  them. 


If  I  have  read  religious  history  aright  —  faith,  hope, 
and  charity  have  not  always  been  found  in  a  direct 
ratio  with  a  sensibility  to  the  three  concords;  and  it 
is  possible,  thank  Heaven!  to  have  very  erroneous 
theories  and  very  sublime  feelings.  The  raw  bacon 
which  clumsy  Molly  spares  from  her  own  scanty  store, 
that  she  may  carry  it  to  her  neighbor's  child  to  "stop 
the  fits,"  may  be  a  piteonsly  ineliicacioas  remedy;  but 
the  generous  stirring  of  neighborly  kindness  that 
prompted  the  deed  has  a  beneficent  radia  ion  that  is 
not  lost. 


Without  this  fellow-feeling,  ho  ware  we  to  get  enough 


46  ADAM  BEDS. 

patience  and  charity  towards  our  stumbling,  falling 
companions  in  the  long  and  changeful  journey?  And 
there;  is  but  one  way  in  which  a  strong  determined  soul 
can  learn  it  —  by  getting  his  heart-strings  bound  round 
the  weak  and  erring,  so  that  he  must  share  not  only 
the  outward  consequence  of  their  error,  but  their  in- 
ward suffering.  That  is  a  long  and  hard  lesson. 


Energetic  natures,  strong  for  all  strenuous  deeds, 
\vill  often  rush  away  from  a  hopeless  sufferer,  as  if 
they  were  hard-hearted.  It  is  the  overmastering 
sense  of  pain  that  drives  them.  They  shrink  by  an 
ungovernable  instinct,  as  they  would  shrink  from  lac- 
eration. 


If  a  country  beauty  in  clumsy  shoes  be  only  shallow- 
hearted  enough,  it  is  astonishing  how  closely  her 
mental  processes  may  resemble  those  of  a  lady  in. 
society  and  crinoline,  who  applies  her  refined  intellect 
to  the  problem  of  committing  indiscretions  without 
compromising  herself. 


Pray  how  many  of  your  well-wishers  would  decline 
to  make  a  little  gain  out  of  you?  Your  landlady  is 
sincerely  affected  at  parting  with  you,  respects  you 
highly,  and  will  really  rejoice  if  any  one  el>e  is  gener- 
ous to  you;  but  at  the  same  time  she  hands  you  a  bill 
by  which  she  gains  as  high  a  percentage  as  possible. 


"We  don't  inquire  too  closely  into   character  in  the 
case  of  a  handsome  generous  young  fellow,  who  will 


ADAM  BEDE.  47 

have  property  enough  to  support  numerous  peccadilloes 
—  who,  if  lie  should  unfortunately  break  a  man's  legs 
in  his  rash  driving,  will  bo  able  to  pension  him  hand- 
somely; or  if  he  should  happen  to  spoil  a  woman's  ex- 
istence for  her,  will  make  it  up  to  her  with  expensive 
bon-l/onx.  packed  up  and  directed  by  his  own  hand.  It 
would  be  ridiculous  to  be  prying  and  analytic  in  such 
cases,  as  if  one  were  inquiring  into  the  character  of  a 
confidential  clerk.  We  use  round,  general,  gentle- 
manly epithets  about  a  young  man  of  birth  and  for- 
tune ;  and  ladies,  with  that  line  intuition  which  is  the 
distinguishing  attribute  of  their  sex,  sec  at  once  that 
he  is  "  nice."  The  chances  are  that  he  will  go  through 
life  without  scandalizing  any  one  ;  a  sea- worthy  vessel 
that  no  one  would  refuse  to  insure. 


In  young,  childish,  ignorant  souls  there  is  constantly 
this  blind  trust  in  some  unshapeii  chance;  it  is  as  hard, 
to  a  boy  or  girl  to  believe  that  a  great  wretchedness 
will  actually  befall  them,  as  to  believe  that  they  will 
die. 


We  do  not  hear  that  Memnon's  statue  gave  forth  its 
melody  at  all  under  the  rushing  of  the  mightiest  wind, 
or  in  response  to  any  other  inlluence,  divine  or  human, 
than  certain  short-lived  sunbeams  of  morning;  and  we 
must  learn  to  accommodate  ourselves  to  the  discovery 
that  some  of  those  cunningly-fashioned  instruments 
called  human  souls  have  only  a  very  limited  range  of 
music,  and  will  not  vibrate  iu  the  least  under  a  touch 


43  ~    ADAM  LEDE. 


Yes,  the  actions  of  a  little  trivial  soul  like  Hetty's, 
strirz.U'Kii'j:  amid;  t  the  serious,  sad  des;  inies  of  a  human 
bchiL:,  (H'r  strange.  So  are  the  motions  of  a  little 
vessel  wi'.hont  ballast  tossed  about  on  a  stormy  sea. 
IIo\v  pretty  it  looked  wkh  ils  parti-colored  sail  in  the 
sunlight,  i;;oored  in  l!ie  nmb't  bay: 

'•  Let  that  man  bear  the  lo.-s  who  loosed  it  from  i's 
moorings." 

I]a'  t!i  it  \viil  not  sa\~c  !l,"  \-"s-^--l  —  the  pretty  thr.i'4 
that  iai::!u  have  been  a  la^  In:;'  j  :v. 


Sec  the  dlll'/renco  lietween  th;.'  i::ipres>if)n  a  man 
imik'js  on  yon  \vh  ••!  yon  walk  by  his  >!d;;  in  I'amiiiar 
talk:  or  look  at  him  in  his  home,  and  the  liir.r.v  he 
ii):;kc.'s  when  seen  from  a  1  >t':y  hist  u'i-a!  level,  or  even 
in  the  eyes  of  a  er'uieai  neighbor.  w!io  ihinl^s  <it'  hi:n 
as  :ui  embodied  system  or  opinion  raiher  than  as  a 
man. 


I'arson  Irwino  was  one  ol'  those  men.  ami  they  are 
not  the  eommoncsi,  of  whom  we  can  know  Ihe  l>e--t 
only  1)V  following  ihem  away  from  ihe  inai'ket-pla^e, 
the  pla!i'or::i,  and  tin.1  p:;lp;'.  en!  Tim,'  \vi'h  Ihem  in;  > 
their  o\\  n  homes,  hearinu:  Ihe  voice  wi:h  \','hieh  1'i'V 
Kjii'ak  to  the  yomiLC  and  ::•_;•<  il  abon!  tli  ir  own  hi'ar'.li- 
stonc.  and  wi;  n  ••••-;::  .r  t'i'ir  tho'i^li' fill  care  for  llr.' 
every-i!ay  wants  of  every-day  companions,  who  lake  ail 


ADAM  BEDE.  49 

their  kindness  ns  a  matter  of  course,  find  not  as  a  sub- 
ject for  panegyric. 


It  is  better  sometimes  not  to  follow  great  reformers 
of  abuses  beyond  the  threshold  of  their  homes. 


The  secret  of  our  emotions  never  lies  in  the  bare 
object,  but  in  its  subtle  relations  to  our  own  past:  no 
wonder  the  secret  escapes  the  unsympathiziug  observer, 
who  might  as  well  put  on  his  spectacles  to  discern 
odors. 


That  is  the  great  advantage  of  dialogue  on  horse- 
back ;  it  can  be  merged  any  minute  into  a  trot  or  a 
canter,  and  one  might  have  escaped  from  Socrates 
himself  in  the  saddle. 


The  beginning  of  hardship  is  like  the  first  taste  of 
bitter  food  —  it  seems  for  a  moment  unbearable;  yet, 
it'  there  is  nothing  else  to  satisfy  our  hunger,  we  take 
another  bile  and  liud  it  possible  to  go  on. 


There  is  no  despair  so  absolute  as  that  which  comes 
wi;h  the  lirst  moments  of  our  first  great  sorrow,  when 
we  have  not  yet  known  what  it  is  to  have  suffered  and 
be  healed,  to  have  despaired  and  to  have  recovered 
hope. 


I.isbeth  looked  round  with  blank  eyes  at  the  dirt  and 
confusion  on  which  the  bright  afternoon's  sun   shone 
dismally;   it  was  all  of  a  piece  with  the  sad  coni'usiou 
4 


50  ADAM  EEDE. 

of  her  mind  —  that  confusion  which  belongs  to  the 
first  hours  of  a  sudden  sorrow,  when  the1  poor  human 
soul  is  like  one  who  has  been  deposited  sleeping  among 
the  ruins  of  avast  cily,  and  wakes  up  in  dreary  auia/.c- 
mcnt,  not  knowing  whether  it  is  the  growing  or  the 
dying  da}'  —  not  knowing  why  and  whence  came  this 
illimitable  scene  of  desolation,  or  why  he  too  iinds 
himself  desolate  in  the  midst  of  it. 


In  our  times  of  bitter  suffering,  there  arc  almost 
always  these  pauses,  when  our  consciousness  is  be- 
numbed to  everything  but  some  trivial  perception  or 
sensation.  It  is  as  if  semi-idiocy  came  to  give  us  rest 
from  the  memory  and  the  dread  which  refuse  to  leave 
us  in  our  sleep. 


There  is  a  strength  of  self-possession  which  is  the 
sign  that  the  last  hope  has  departed.  Despair  no  more 
leans  on  others  than  perfect  contentment,  and  in  de- 
spair pride  ceases  to  be  counteracted  by  the  sense  of 
dependence. 


When  our  indignation  is  borne  in  submissive  silence, 

we  are  apt  to  feel  twinges  of  doubt  afterwards  as  to 
our  own  generosity,  if  not  justice;  how  much  more 
when  the  object  of  our  anger  lias  gone  into  everlasting 
silence,  and  we  have  .-ecu  his  face  for  the  last  time  in 
the  meekness  of  death  ! 


When  death,  the  great  llecouciler,  has  come,  it  is 


ADAM  BEDE.  51 

never  our  tenderness  that  we  repent  of,  but  our  se- 
verity. 


What  we  thought  the  oldest  truth  becomes  the  most 
startling  to  us  in  the  week  when  we  have  looked  on 
the  dead  face  of  one  who  has  made  a  part  of  our  own 
lives.  For  when  men  want  to  impress  us  with  the 
effect  of  a  nc\v  and  wonderfully  vivid  light,  do  they 
not  let  it  fall  on  the  most  familiar  objects,  that  we 
may  measure  its  intensity  by  remembering  the  former 
dimness? 


Our  dead  are  never  dead  to  us  until  we  have  for- 
gotten them  :  they  can  be  injured  by  us,  they  can  be 
wounded ;  they  know  all  our  penitence,  all  our  aching 
sense  that  their  place  is  empty,  all  the  kisses  we  be- 
stow on  the  smallest  relic  of  their  presence. 


Why  did  they  say  she  was  so  changed?  In  the 
corpse  we  love,  it  is  the  likeness  we  see  —  it  is  the  like- 
ness, which  makes  itself  felt  the  more  keenly  because 
something  else  icas  and  is  not. 


The  mother's  j'carning,  that  completest  type  of  the 
life  in  another  life  which  is  the  essence  of  real  human 
love,  feels  the  presence  of  the  cherished  child  even  in 
the  base,  degraded  man. 


If  it  be  true  that  Nature  at  certain  moments  seems 
charged  with  a  presentiment  of  one  individual  lot, 
must  it  not  also  be  true  that  she  seems  unmindful, 


52  AD  All  EEDE. 

unconscious  of  another?    For  there  is  no  hour  that 

has  not  its  births  of  gladness  and  despair,  no  morning 
brightness  that  does  not  bring  new  Mcknos  to  des- 
ola:  ion  as  well  ;;s  new  forces  to  census  am!  love.  There 
are  so  many  of  us.  and  our  lots  arc  so  difi'crent :  \vhut 
Wonder  that  Nature's  mood  is  often  i;i  harsh  contrast 
with  the  groat  crisis  of  our  lives?  We  are  children  of 
a  large  family,  and  must  loam,  as  such  children  do, 
not  to  expect  that  our  hurts  will  be  made  muvh  of — to 
be  content  with  little  nurture  and.  caressing,  and.  help 
each  other  the  more. 


Nature  has  licr  lanirunjre.  and  she  is  not  unvcracious  ; 
but  we  don't  know  all  the  intricacies  of  her  syntax 
just  yet,  and  in  a  hasty  reading  we  may  happen  to 
extract  the  very  opposite  of  her  real  meaning. 


There  arc  faces  which  Nature  chanrcs  with  a  mean- 
ing ami  pathos  not  belonging  to  the  single  human  soul 
that  flutters  beneath  them,  but  speaking  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  foregone  generations  —  eyes  that  tell  of 
dec  [i  love  which  cl-mbtless  has  been  and  is  somewhere, 
but  not  paired  with  the>e  eyes  —  perhaps  paired  with 
pale  eyes  that  can  say  nothing:  just  as  a  national  lan- 
guage may  be  instinct  wkh  poetry  unl'elt  by  the  lips 
that  use  it. 


Family  likeness  has  often  a  deep  sadne>s  i:i  it. 
Nature,  that  great  tragic  dramatist,  kai.s  us  together 
by  bone  and  muscle,  and  divid  -s  us  by  the  subtler  wel) 
of  our  brains;  blends  yearning  and  repulsion;  and 


ADAM  BEDE.  «  53 

tics  us  by  our  heart-strings  to  the  beings  that  jar  us  at 
every  movement.  We  hear  a  voice  with  the  very 
cadence  of  our  o\vu  uttering  the  thoughts  we  despise  ; 
we  see  eyes  —  ah!  so  like  our  mothers  —  averted  IVom 
us  iu  cold  alienation ;  and  our  last  darling  child  star- 
tles us  with  the  air  and  gestures  of  the  sister  we  parted 
1'roni  in  bitterness  long  years  ago.  The  father  to 
whom  we  owe  our  best  heritage  —  the  mechanical  in- 
stinct, the  keen  sensibility  to  harmony,  the  unconscious 
skill  of  the  modelling  hand  —  galls  us,  and  puts  us  to 
shame  by  his  daily  errors  ;  the  long-lost  mother,  whose 
face  we  begin  to  sec  in  the  glass  as  our  own  wrinkles 
come,  once  fretted  our  young  souls  with  her  anxious 
humors  and  irrational  persistence. 


Perhaps  there  is  no  time  in  a  summer's  day  more 
cheering,  than  svhcn  the  warmth  of  the  sun  is  just  be- 
ginning to  triumph  over  the  freshness  of  the  morning 
—  when  there  is  just  a  lingering  hint  of  early  coolness 
to  keep  off  languor  under  the  delicious  influence  of 
warmth. 


There's  such  a  thing  as  being  over-speri'ial ;  we 
must  have  something  beside  Gospel  i'  this  world. 
Look  at  the  canals,  an'  tli'  ariueducs,  r.u'  th'  coal-pit 
engine's,  and  ArkwTighL's  mills  there  tit  Cromford ;  a 
man  must  learn  stmimr.t  beside  Gospc.1  to  v.U'.kc  them 
thing's,  1  reckon.  Bui,  t'  hear  some  o'  them  preachers, 
youM  think  as  a  man  must  bj  (h)i:r;  nulling  all's  lifj 
but  shutting's  eyes  and  looking  what's  a-going  on  in- 
side him.  I  know  a  man  must  have  the  l;jve  o'  God 


54  *  ADA X  BEDE. 

in  his  soul,  and  the  Bible's  God's  word.  But  what 
docs  the  Bible  say?  \Vhy,  it  says  as  God  put  his  spcr- 
rit  into  the  workman  as  built  the  tabernacle,  to  make 
him  do  all  the  carved  work  and  things  as  wanted  a  nice 
hand.  And  this  is  my  way  o'  looking  at  it:  there's 
the  spcrrit  o'  God  in  all  things  and  all  times  —  week- 
day as  well  as  Sunday  —  and  i'  the  great  works  and 
inventions,  and  i'  the  lignring  and  the  mechanics.  And 
God  helps  us  with  our  head-pieces  and  our  hands  as 
well  as  with  our  souls ;  and  if  a  man  does  bits  o'  jobs 
out  o'  working  hours  —  builds  a  oven  1'or's  wife  to 
save  her  from  going  to  the  bakehouse,  or  scrats  at  his 
bit  o'  garden  and  makes  two  potatoes  grow  istcad  o' 
one,  he's  doing  more  good,  and  he's  ju>t  as  near  to 
God,  as  if  he  was  running  after  some  preacher  and 
a-praying  and  a-groaning.1 


I've  seen  pretty  clear  ever  since  I  was  a  young  un, 
as  religion's  something  else  besides  doctrines  and 
notions.  I  look  at  it  as  if  the  doctrines  was  like  find- 
ing names  for  your  feelings,  so  as  you  can  talk  of  'em 
when  you've  never  known  'em,  just  as  a  man  may  talk 
o'  tools  when  he  knows  their  names,  though  he's  never 
so  much  as  seen  'em,  still  less  handled  'em.1 


"They  that  are  strong  oui^ht  to  bear  the  infirmities 
of  those  that  are  weak,  and  not  to  plea-c  themselves.'' 
There's  a  text  wants  no  candle  to  show't;  it  shines 
by  its  own  light.  It's  plain  enough  ymi  u'ct  into  the 
•\\rong  road  i' this  life  if  you  run  after  this  and  that 
only  for  the  sake  o'  making  things  ea.-y  and  pleasant 


AT) AX  BEDE.  55 

to  yourself.  A  pig  may  poke  his  nose  into  the  trough 
and  think  o' nothing  outside  it;  but  if  you've  got  a 
man's  heart  and  soul  in  j'ou,  you  can't  be  easy  a-mak- 
ing  your  own  bed  an'  leaving  the  rest  to  lie  on  the 
stones.  Nay,  nay,  I'll  never  slip  my  neck  out  o'  the 
yoke-,  and  leave  the  load  to  be  drawn  by  the  weak 

UU3. 


There's  nothing  like  settling  with  ourselves  as 
there's  a  deal  we  must  do  without  i'  this  life.  It's  no 
nsc  looking  on  life  as  if  it  Avas  Treddles'on  fair,  where 
folks  only  go  to  see  shows  and  get  fairings.  If  we  do, 
we  .shall  tind  it  different.1 


I  like  to  read  about  Moses  best,  in  tlf  Old  Testa- 
ment, lie  carried  a  hard  business  well  through,  and 
died  when  other  folks  were  going  to  reap  the  fruits:  a 
man  must  have  courage  to  look  at  his  life  so,  and 
think  what'll  come  of  it  after  he's  dead  and  gone.  A 
good  solid  bit  o'  work  lasts  :  if  it's  only  laying  a  floor 
clown,  somebody's  the  better  for  it  being  done  well, 
besides  the  mail  as  does  it.1 


I  can't  abide  to  see  men  throw  away  their  tools  i' 
(hat  way,  the  minute  the  clock  begins  to  strike,  as  if 
they  took  no  pleasure  i'  their  work,  and  was  afraid  o' 
doing  a  stroke  too  much.  ...  I  hale  to  see  a  man's 
anus  drop  down  as  if  he  was  shot,  before  the  clock's 
fairly  struck,  just  as  if  he'd  never  a  bit  o'  pride  and 
delight  in's  work.  The  very  grindstone  'uil.  go  on 
turning  a  bit  after  you  loose  it.1 


56  ADAM  BEDE. 

A  foreman,,  if  lie's  got  a  conscience,  and  delights  in 
his  work,  will  do  his  business  as  well  us  if  lie  was  a 
partner.  I  wouldn't  give  a  penny  for  a  man  as  'ud 
drive  a  nail  in  slack  because  he  didn't  get  extra  pay 
for  it.1 


You  can  so  seldom  get  hold  of  a  man  as  can  turn 
his  brains  to  more  nor  one  thing;  it's  just  as  if  they 
wore  blinkers  like  th'  horses,  and  could  see  nothing  o' 
one  side  of  'em.1 


If  a  woman's  young  and  pretty,  I  think  you  can  see 
her  good  looks  all  the  better  for  her  being  plain 
dressed.  ...  It  seems  to  me  as  a  woman's  face  doesna 
want  flowers;  it's  almost  like  a  flower  itself.  .  .  .  It's 
like  when  a  man  's  singing  a  good  time,  you  don't  want 
t'  hear  bells  tinkling  and  interfering  wi'  the  sound.1 


It's  wonderful  how  that  sound  (of  the  "Harvest 
Home")  goes  to  one's  heart  almost  like  a  funeral- 
bell,  for  all  it  tells  one  o'  (he  joyfullest  time  o'  the  year, 
and  the  time  when  men  are  mostly  the  thankfullest.  I 
suppose:  il's  a  bit  hard  to  us  to  think  anything 's  over 
and  gone  in  our  lives;  and  there's  a  parting  at,  the 
root  of  all  our  joys.1 


It  seems  to  me  it's  the  same  with  love  and  happi- 
ness as  with  sorrow — the  more  we  know  of  it  the. 
better  we  can  f-'d  what  oilier  people's  lives  are  or 
might  be,  and  so  we  shall  only  be  more  tender  to  'em, 
and  wishful  to  help  'em.  The  more  knowledge  a  man 


ADAM  EEVE.  57 

has,  the  better  he'll  do  's  work;  and  feeling's  a  sort  o' 
knowledge.1 


It  'ml  be  a  poor  look-out  if  folks  didn't  remember 
what  they  did  and  said  when  they  were  lads.  We 
should  think  no  more  about  old  friends  than  we  do 
about  new  uus,  then.1 


There's    no  rule  so  wise  but  what   it's  a  pity  for 
somebody  or  other.1 


It's  a  feeling  as  gives  you  a  sort  o*  liberty,  as  if  you 
could  walk  more  fearless,  when  you've  more  trust  in 
another  than  y'  have  in  yourself.1 


It's  poor  foolishness  to  run  down  your  enemies.1 


I've  seen  pretty  clear,  ever  since  I  was  a  young  un, 
as  religion 's  something  else  besides  notions.  It  isn't 
notions  sets  people  doing  the  right  thing — it's  feelings. 
It's  the  same  with  the  notions  in  religion  as  it  is  with 
math'matics, —  a  man  maybe  able  to  work  problems 
straight  off  ill's  head  as  he  sits  by  the  Ore  and  smokes 
his  pipe;  but  if  he  has  to  make  a  machine  or  a  build- 
ing, he  must  have  a  will  and  a  resolution,  and  love 
something  else  better  than  his  own  ease.1 


"When  people's  feelings  have  got  a  deadly  wound, 
they  can't  be  cured  with  favors.1 


I   know  forgiveness   is  a  man's   duty,  but,  to  my 


58  ADAM  EEDE. 

thinking,  that  can  only  mean  as  you're  to  give  up  all 
thoughts  o'  taking  revenge :  it  can  never  mean  as 
you're  t'  have  your  old  feelings  back  again,  for  that's 
not  possible.1 


The  best  fire  doesna  flare  up  the  soonest.1 


I  won't  open  the  door  again.  It's  no  use  staring 
about  to  catch  sight  of  a  sound.  Maybe  there 's  a 
world  about  us  as  we  can't  see,  but  th'  ear's  quicker 
than  the  eye,  and  catches  a  sound  from't  now  and 
then.  Some  people  think  they  get  a  sight  on  't  too, 
but  they're  mostly  folks  whose  eyes  are  not  much  use 
to  'em  at  anything  else.  Tor  my  part,  I  thiuk  it's 
better  to  see  when  your  perpendicular's  true,  than  to 
see  a  jrhost.1 


I  began  to  see  as  all  this  weighing  and  sifting  what 
this  text  means  and  that  text  means,  and  whether 
folks  are  saved  all  by  God's  grace,  or  whether  there 
goes  an  ounce  o'  their  own  will  to  't,  was  no  part  o' 
real  religion  at  all.  You  may  talk  o'  these  things  for 
hours  on  end,  and  you'll  only  be  all  the  more  coxy 
and  conceited  for't. ' 


There's  a  deal  in  a  man's  inward  life  as  you  can't 
measure  by  the  square,  and  say,  '-J)o  this  and  that'll 
follow,"  and,  "  I)u  that  and  this '11  follow."  There's 
things  go  on  in  the  soul,  and  times  when  feelings 
come  into  you  like  a  rushing  mighty  wind,  as  the 
Scripture  says,  and  part  your  life  in  two  a'niost,  so  a3 


ADAJf  BEDE.  59 

you  look  back  on  yourself  as  if  you  was  somebody  else. 
Those  are  things  as  you  can't  bottle  up  in  a  "  do  this  " 
and  "do  that";  and  I'll  go  so  far  with  the  strongest 
Methodist  ever  you'll  flnd.  That  shows  me  there's 
deep  speritial  things  in  religion.  You  can't  make 
much  out  wi'  talking  about  it,  but  you  feel  it.1 


I  found  it  better  for  my  soul  to  be  humble  before  the 
mysteries  o'  God's  dealings,  and  not  be  making  a  clat- 
ter about  what  I  could  never  understand.1 


It  takes  something  else  besides  'cutcness  to  make 
folks  see  what  '11  be  their  interest  in  the  long  run.  It 
takes  somes  conscience  and  belief  in  right  and  wrong.1 


I  don't  remember  ever  being  see-saw,  when  I'd 
made  my  mind  up  that  a  thing  was  wrong.  It  takes 
the  taste  out  o'  my  mouth  for  things,  when  I  know  I 
should  have  a  heavy  conscience  after  'em.  I  've  seen 
pretty  clear,  ever  since  I  could  cast  up  a  sum,  as  you 
can  never  do  what's  wrong  without  breeding  sin  and 
trouble  more  than  you  can  ever  see.  It 's  like  a  bit  o' 
bad  workmanship  —  you  never  see  th'  end  o'  the  mis- 
chief it'll  do.  And  it's  a  poor  look-out  to  come  into 
the  world  to  make  your  fellow-creatures  worse  off 
instead  o'  better.1 


We  hand  folks  over  to  God's  mercy,  and  show  none 
ourselves.1 


I  hate  that  talk  o'  people,  as  if  there  was  a  way  o' 


60  ADAM  BEDS. 

making  amends  for  everything.  They'd  more  need 
be  brought  to  see  as  the  wrong  they  do  can  never  be 
altered.  When  a  man's  spoiled  his  fellow-creatur's 
life,  he's  no  right  to  comfort  himself  with  thinking 
good  may  come  out  of  it :  somebody  else's  good 
doesn't  alter  her  shame  and  misery. ' 


It's  well  we  should  feel  as  life's  a  reckoning  we 
can't  make  twice  over;  there's  no  real  making  amends 
in  this  world,  any  more  nor  you  can  mend  a  wrong 
subtraction  by  doing  your  addition  right.1 


It  cuts  one  sadly  to  see  the  grief  of  old  people ; 
they've  no  way  o'  working  it  off;  and  the  new  spring 
brings  no  new  shoots  out  on  the  withered  tree.1 


There's  nothing  but  what's  bearable  as  long  as  a  man 
can  work  :  the  natur  o' things  doesn't  change,  though 
it  seems  as  if  one's  own  life  was  nothing  but  change. 
The  square  o'  four  is  sixteen,  and  you  must  lengthen 
your  lever  in  proportion  to  your  weight,  is  as  true 
when  a  man's  miserable  as  when  he's  happy ;  and  the 
best  o'  working  is.  it  gives  you  a  grip  hold  o'  things 
outside  your  own  lot.1 


If  we're  men.  and  have  men's  feelings,  I  reckon  we 
must  have  men's  troubles.  We  can't  be  like  the  birds, 
as  fly  from  their  nest  as  soon  as  they've  got  their 
wings,  and  never  know  their  kin  when,  the}'  see  'em, 
and  get  a  fresh  lot  every  year.1 


ADAM  BEDE.  61 

There's  many  a  good  bit  o'  work  done  with  a  sad 
heart.1 


Ah,  I  often  think  it's  wi'  th'  old  folks  as  it  is 
wi'  the  babbies ;  they're  satisfied  wi'  looking,  no  mat- 
ter what  they're  looking  at.  It's  God  A'mighty's 
way  o'  quietening  'em,  I  reekon,  afore  they  go  to 
sleep.2 


It's  poor  work  allays  settin'  the  dead  above  the  livin'. 
"We  shall  all  on  us  be  dead  some  time,  I  reckon  —  it  'ud 
be  better  if  folks  'ud  make  much  on  us  beforehand, 
istid  o'  beginnin'  when  we're  gone.  It's  but  little  good 
jrou'll  do  a-watcriug  the  last  year's  crop.2 


I  love  Dinah  next  to  my  own  children.  An'  she 
makes  one  feel  safer  when  she's  i'  the  house ;  for  she's 
like  the  driven  snow :  anybody  might  sin  for  two  as 
had  her  at  their  elbow.2 


It's  poor  eating  where  the  flavor  o'  the  meat  lies  i' 
the  cruets.  There's  folks  as  make  bad  butter,  and 
trusten  to  the  salt  t'  hide  it.2 


If  you  could  make  a  pudding  wi'  thinking  o'  the 
batter,  it  'ud  be  easy  getting  dinner.2 


You're  mighty  fond  o'  Craig;  but,  for  my  part,  I 
think  he's  welly  like  a  cock  as  thinks  the  sun's  rose  o' 
purpose  to  hear  him  crow.2 


62  ADAM  BEDE. 

Wooden  folks  had  need  ha'  wooden  things  t' handle.' 


There  *s  times  when  the  crockery  seems  alive,  an'  flies 
out  o'  your  hand  like  a  bird.  It's  like  the  glass,  some- 
times, 'ull  crack  as  it  stands.  What  is  to  be  broke  will 
be  broke.* 


The  men  are  mostly  so  slow,  their  thoughts  overrun 
'em,  an'  they  can  only  catch  'em  by  the  tail.  I  can 
count  a  stocking-top  while  a  man's  getting 's  tongue 
ready;  an'  when  he  outs  wi'  his  speech  at  last,  there's 
little  broth  to  be  made  oii't.  It's  your  dead  chicks 
take  the  longest  hatchin'.2 


I  know  the  clanciu's  nonsense;  but  if  you  stick  at 
everything  because  it's  nonsense,  you  wonna  go  far 
i'  this  life.  When  your  broth 's  ready-made  for  you, 
you  muu  swallow  the  thickeuin',  or  else  let  the  broth 
alone.2 


Some  folks'  tongues  are  like  the  clocks  as  run  on 
strikin',  not  to  tell  you  the  time  o'  the  day,  because 
there's  summat  wrong  i'  their  own  inside.2 


It's  the  flesh  and  blood  folks  are  made  on  as  makes 
the  difference.  Some  cheeses  are  made  o'  skimmed 
milk  and  some  o'  new  milk,  and  it's  no  matter  what 
you  call  'cm,  you  may  tell  which  is  which  by  the  louk 
and  the  smell.2 


Folks  as  have  uo  mind  to  be  o'  use  have  allavs  the 


ADAM  BEDE.  63 

luck  to  be  out  o'  the  road  when  there 's  anything  to  be 
done.2 


It's  them  as  take  advantage  that  get  advantage  i' 
this  world,  /  think :  folks  have  to  wait  long  enough 
afore  it's  brought  to  'em.2 


It's  all  very  fine  having  a  ready-made  rich  man,  but 
may-happen  he'll  be  a  ready-made  fool ;  and  it's  no 
use  filling  your  pocket  full  o'  money  if  you've  got  a 
hole  in  the  corner.  It  '11  do  you  no  good  to  sit  in  a 
spring-cart  o'  your  own,  if  you've  got  a  soft  to  drive 
you;  he'll  soon  turn  you  over  into  the  ditch.  I  allays 
said  I'd  never  marry  a  man  as  had  got  no  brains;  for 
Where's  the  use  of  a  woman  having  brains  of  her  own 
if  she's  tackled  to  a  geek  as  everybody's  a-laughing  at? 
She  might  as  well  dress  herself  flue  to  sit  back'ards 
on  a  donkey.8 


I  'vc  had  my  say  out,  and  I  shall  be  th'  easier  for  't 
all  my  life.  There  's  no  pleasure  i'  living,  if  you  're  to 
be  corked  up  forever,  and  only  dribble  your  mind  out 
by  the  sly,  like  a  leaky  barrel.2 


The  men  are  mostly  so  tongue-tied  —  you  're  forced 
partly  to  guess  what  they  mean,  as  you  do  wi'  the 
dumb  creaturs.2 

I  aren't  like  a  bird-clapper,  forced  to  make  a  rattle 
when  the  wind  blows  on  me.  I  can  keep  my  own 
counsel  when  there  's  no  good  i'  speaking.2 


64  ADAM  EEDE. 

It  seems  as  if  them  as  aren't  wanted  here  arc  tli" 
only  folks  as  aren't  wanted  i'  th'  other  world.2 


One  'ud  think,  and  hear  some  folks  talk,  as  the  men 
war  'cute  enough  to  eount  the  eorns  in  a  bag  o'  wheat 
wi'  only  smelling  at  it.  They  can  see  through  a  barn- 
door, then  can.  Perhaps  that 's  the  reason  they  can  see 
so  little  o'  this  side  on  't.2 


Them  as  ha'  never  had  a  cushion  don't  miss  it.2 


If  Old  Harry  wants  any  work  done,  you  may  be  sure 
he'll  lind  the  means.1 


I'm   not  dcnyin'  the  women   arc  foolish :    God  Al- 
mighty made  'em  to  mutch  the  men.2 


Hetty 's  no  better  than  a  peacock,  as  'ud  strut  about 
on  the  wall,  and  spread  Us  tail  when  the  sun  shone  if 
all  the  folks  i'  the  parish  was  dj'iug.2 


I'm  not  one  o'  those  as  can  see  the  cat  i'  the  dairy, 
ail'  wonder  what  she  's  come  after.2 


As  for  farming,  it's  putting  money  into  your  pocket 
wi' your  right  hand  and  fetching  it  out  wi' your  left. 
AS  fur  as  I  can  see,  it's  raising  victual  for  oilier  folks, 
and  just  getting  a  mouthful  for  yourself  and  your  chil- 
dren as  you  go  along.  .  .  .  It's  more  than  lloh  and 
blood  'nil  bear  sometimes,  to  be  toiling  and  striving, 
and  up  early  and  down  late,  and  hardly  sleeping  a 


ADAM  BEDS.  65 

wink  when  you  lie  down  for  thinking  as  the  cheese 
may  swell,  or  the  cows  may  slip  their  calf,  or  t, 
wheat  may  grow  green  again  i'  the  sheaf — and  after 
all,  at  th  end  o'  the  year,  it's  like  as  if  you'd  been 
cooking  a,  feast  and  had  got  the  smell  of  it  for  your 
pains.2 


It's  allays  the  way  wi'  them  meek-faced  people ;  you 
may's  well  pelt  a  bag  o'  feathers  as  talk  to  'em.2 


Wi'  them  three  gclls  in  the  house  I'd  need  have 
twice  the  strength,  to  keep  'em  up  to  their  work.  It's 
like  having  roast-meat  at  three  fires;  as  soon  as 
you've  basted  one,  another's  burnin'.2 


There's  nothing  you  can't  believe  o'  them  wenches  : 
they'll  set  the  empty  kettle  o'  the  fire,  and  then  come 
an  hour  after  to  see  if  the  water  boils.  .  .  . 

"Told  her?"  yes,  I  might  spend  all  the  wind  i' my 
body,  an'  take  the  bellows  too,  if  I  was  to  tell  them 
gells  everything  as  their  own  sharpness  wonna  tell 
'em.2 


I  have  nothing  to  say  again'  Craig,  on'y  it  is  a  pity 
he  couldua  be  hatched  o'er  again,  an'  hatched  differ- 
ent.2 


I'd  sooner  ha'  brewin'  day  an'  washin'  day  together 
than  one  o'  these  plcasurin'  days.  There's  no  work 
so  tirin'  as  danglin'  about  an'  starhf  an'  not  rightly 
kno win'  what  you're  goin'  to  do  next;  and  keepiu' 


66  ADAM  EEDE. 

your  face  i'  sinilin'  order  like  a  grocer  o'  market-day 

for  fear  people  shouldna  think  you  civil  enouidi.  An' 
you've  nothing  tosho\v  for't  when  it's  done,  if  it  i.sn't 
a  yallow  face  wi'  eatin'  things  as  disagree.2 


"\Vc  are  led  on,  like  the  little  children,  by  a  way  that 
we  know  not.3 


It's  good  to  live  only  a  moment  at  a  time,  as  I've 
read  in  one  of  Mr.  Wesley's  books.  It  isn't  for  you 
and  me  to  lay  plans;  we've  nothing  to  do  but  to  obey 
and  to  trust.3 


It  is  a  vain  thought  to  flee  from  the  work  that  God 
appoints  us,  for  the  sake  of  finding  a  greater  blessing 
to  our  own  souls,  as  if  we  could  choose  for  ourselves 
where  we  shall  find  the  fulness  of  the  Divine  Presence, 
instead  of  seeking  it  where  alone  it  is  to  be  found,  iu 
loving  obedience.3 


It  makes  no  difference —  whether  we  live  or  die,  we 
are  in  the  presence  of  God.3 


I  think,  sir,  when  God  makes  his  presence  felt 
through  us,  we  are  like  the  burninir  bush  :  Moses 
ne\er  took  any  heed  what  sort  of  Im.-h  it  was  —  he 
onlv  saw  the  brightness  of  the  L;>rd.J 


ADAM  SEDE.  67 

known,  if  it's  only  been  for  a  few  days,  are  brought 
before  me,  and  I  hear  their  voices  ami  see  them  look 
and  move  almost  plainer  than  I  ever  did  \vheii  they 
were  really  with  me  so  as  I  could  touch  them.  And 
then  my  heart  is  drawn  out  towards  them,  and  I  feel 
their  lot  as  if  it  was  my  own,  and  I  take  comfort  in 
spreading  it  before  the  Lord  and  resting  in  his  love, 
on  their  behalf  as  well  as  mv  own.3 


I've  noticed,  that  in  these  villages  where  the  people 
lead  a  quiet  life  among  the  green  pastures  and  the  still 
waters,  tilling  the  ground  and  tending  the  cattle, 
there's  a  strange  deadness  to  the  Word,  as  dill'erent 
as  can  bo  from  the  great  towns,  like  Leeds,  where  I 
once  went  to  visit  a  holy  woman  who  preaches  there. 
It's  wonderful  how  rich  is  the  harvest  of  souls  up 
those  high-walled  streets,  where  you  seemed  to  walk 
as  in  a  prison-yard,  and  the  ear  is  defeaned  with  the 
sounds  of  wordly  toil.  I  think  maybe  it  is  because 
the  promise  is  sweeter  when  this  life  is  so  dark  and 
weary,  and  the  soul  gets  more  hungry  when  the  body 
is  ill  at  case.3 


I've  noticed  it  often  among  my  own  people  around 
Snowlield,  that  the  strong,  skilful  men  are  often  the 
gentlest  to  the  women  and  children;  and  it's  pretty  to 
see  'em  carrying  the  little  babies  as  if  they  were  no 
heavier  than  little  birds.  And  the  babies  always  seem 
to  like  the  strong  arm  be>!.:! 


Poor  dog!     I've  a  strange  feeling  about  the  dumb 


68  ADAM  BEDS. 

things  as  if  they  wanted  to  speak,  and  it  was  a  troubk. 
to  Yin  because  they  couldn't.  I  can't  help  being  sorry 
for  the  dogs  always,  though  perhaps  there's  no  need. 
But  they  may  well  have  more  in  them  than  they  know 
how  to  make  us  understand,  for  we  can't  say  half  what 
we  feel,  with  all  our  words.3 


There's  a  sort  of  wrong  that  can  never  be  made  up 
for.3 


We  are  over-hasty  to  speak  —  as  if  God  did  not 
manifest  himself  by  our  silent  feeling,  and  make  his 
love  felt  through  ours.3 


God  can't  bless  you  while  you  have  one  falsehood  in. 
your  soul ;  his  pardoning  mercy  can't  reach  you  until 
you  open  your  heart  to  him,  and  say,  "  I  have  done 
this  great  wickedness;  0  God,  save  me,  make  me 
pure  from  sin."  While  you  cling  to  one  sin  and  will 
not  part  with  it,  it  must  drag  you  down  to  misery 
after  death,  as  it  has  dragged  you  to  misery  here  in 
this  world,  my  poor,  poor  Hetty.  It  is  sin  that  brings 
dread  and  darkness  and  despair:  there  is  light  and 
blessedness  for  us  as  soon  as  we  cast  it  oil':  God 
enters  our  souls  then,  and  teaches  us,  and  brings  us 
strength  and  peace.3 


The  trie  cross  of  the  Redeemer  was  the  sin  and 
sorrow  of  this  world  —  Unit  was  what  lay  heavy  o;i  his 
heart — -and  that  is  the  cross  we  shall  share  with  him, 
that  is  the  cup  we  mu.st  drink  of  with  him,  if  wo 


ADAM  BEDE.  69 

would  have  any  part  in  that  Divine  Love  which  is  one 
with  his  sorrow.3 


Ah,  that  is  a  blessed  time,  isn't  it,  Seth,  when  the 
outward  light  is  fading,  and  the  body  is  a  little  wearied 
with  its  work  and  its  labor.  Then  the  inward  light 
shines  the  brighter,  and  we  have  a  deeper  sense  of 
resting  on  the  Divine  strength.  I  sit  on  my  chair  in 
the  dark  room  and  close  my  eyes,  and  it  is  as  if  I  was 
out  of  the  body  and  could  feel  no  want  for  evermore. 
For  then,  the  very  hardship,  and  the  sorrow,  and  the 
blindness,  and  the  sin,  I  have  beheld  and  been  ready 
to  weep  over  —  yea,  all  the  anguish  of  the  children  of 
men,  which  sometimes  wraps  me  round  like  sudden 
darkness  —  I  can  bear  with  a  willing  pain,  as  if  I  was 
sharing  the  Redeemer's  cross.  For  I  feel  it,  I  feel  it 
—  inlinite  love  is  suffering  too  —  yea,  in  the  fulness  of 
knowledge  it  suffers,  it  yearns,  it  mourns;  and  that  is 
a  blind  self-seeking  which  wants  to  be  freed  from  the 
sorrow  wherewith  the  whole  creation  groaneth  and 
travaileth.  Surely  it  is  not  true  blessedness  to  be 
free  from  sorrow,  while  there  is  sorrow  and  sin  in  the 
world ;  sorrow  is  then  a  part  of  love,  and  love  does 
not  seek  to  throw  it  olf.  It  is  not  the  spirit  only  that 
tells  me  this  —  I  see  it  in  the  whole  work  and  word  of 
the  gospel.  Is  ihere  not  pleading  in  heaven?  Is  not 
the  Man  of  Sorrows  there  in  that  crucified  body 
wherewith  he  ascended?  And  is  he  not  one  with  the 
Infinite  Love  itself — as  our  love  is  one  with  our 
sorrow?  3 


70  ADAM  EEDE. 

Now,  yon  see,  you  don't  do  this  thing  a  bit  better 
than  you  did  a  fortnight  ago ;  and  I'll  tell  j'ou  what's 
the  reason.  You  want  to  learn  accounts ;  that's  well 
and  good.  But  you  think  all  you  need  do  to  learn 
accounts  is  to  come  to  me  and  do  sums  for  an  hour  or 
so,  two  or  three  times  a  week;  and  no  sooner  do  you 
get  your  caps  on  and  turn  out  of  doors  again,  than 
you  sweep  the  whole  thing  clean  out  of  your  mind. 
You  go  whistling  about,  and  take  no  more  care  what 
you're  thinking  of  than  if  your  heads  were  gutters  for 
any  rubbish  to  swill  through  that  happened  to  be  in 
the  way;  and  if  you  get  a  good  notion  in  'em,  it's 
pretty  soon  washed  out  again.  You  think  knowledge 
is  to  be  got  cheap  —  you'll  come  and  pay  Bartle 
Massey  sixpence  a  week,  and  he'll  make  you  clever  at 
figures  without  your  taking  any  trouble.  But  knowl- 
edge isn't  to  be  got  with  paying  sixpence,  let  me  tell 
you  :  if  you're  to  know  figures,  you  must  turn  'cm 
over  in  your  own  heads,  and  keep  your  thoughts  fixed 
on  'cm.  There's  nothing  you  can't  turn  into  a  sum, 
for  there's  nothing  but  what's  got  number  in  it —  even 
a  fool.  You  may  say  to  yourselves,  "I'm  one  fool, 
and  Jack's  another;  if  my  fool's  head  weighed  four 
pound,  and  Jack's  three  pound  three  ounces  and  three 
quarters,  how  many  pennyweights  heavier  would 
my  head  be  than  Jack's?"  A  man  that  had  got  Ms 
heart  in  learning  ligures  would  make  sums  for  him- 
self, and  work  'em  in  his  head  :  when  he  sat  at  his 
shoemaking,  he'd  count  his  stitches  by  lives,  and  thru 
put  a  price  on  his  stitches,  say  half  a  farthing,  and 
then  see  how  much  money  he  could  get  in  an  hour; 


BEDS.  71 


and  then  ask  himself  how  much  money  he'd  get  in  a 
day  at  that  rate  ;  and  then  how  much  ten  workmen 
would  get  working  three,  or  twenty,  or  a  hundred 
years  at  that  rate  —  and  all  the  while  his  needle  would 
be  going  just  as  fast  as  if  he  left  his  head  empty  for 
the  devil  to  dance  in.  But  the  long  and  the  short  of  it 
is  —  I'll  have  nobody  in  my  night-school  that  doesn't 
strive  to  learn  what  he  comes  to  learn,  as  hard  as  if  he 
was  striving  to  get  out  of  a  dark  hole  into  broad  day- 
light. I'll  send  no  man  away  because  he's  stupid  :  if 
Billy  Taft,  the  idiot,  wanted  to  learn  anything,  I'd  not 
refuse  to  teach  him.  But  I'll  not  throw  away  good 
knowledge  on  people  who  think  they  can  get  it  by  the 
sixpenn'orth,  and  carry  it  away  with  'em  as  they  would 
an  ounce  of  snuff.  So  never  come  to  me  again,  if  you 
can't  show  that  you've  been  working  with  your  own 
heads,  instead  of  thinking  you  can  pay  for  mine  to 
work  for  you.  That's  the  last  word  I've  got  to  say  to 
you.4 


TVhy,  the  Scotch  tunes  are  just  like  a  scolding, 
nagging  woman.  They  go  on  with  the  same  tiling 
over  and  over  again,  and  never  come  to  a  reasonable 
end.  Anybody  'ud  think  the  Scotch  tunes  had  always 
been  asking  a  question  of  somebody  as  deaf  as  old 
Taft,  and  had  never  got  an  answer  yet.* 


You  must  learn  to  deal  with  odd  and  even  in  life,  as 
well  as  in  ligures.4 


No  man  can  be  wise  on  an  empty  stomach.4 


72  ADAJf  BEDE. 

As    for    age,   what    that's   worth    depends  on  the 
quality  o'  the  liquor.4 


It's  easy  finding  reasons  why  other  folks  should  be 
patient.4 


College  mostly  makes  people  like  bladders — just 
good  for  nothing  but  t'  hold  the  stun"  as  is  poured  into 
'em.4 


If  j'ou  trust  a  man,  let  him  be  a  bachelor  —  let  him 
be  a  bachelor.4 


I  daresay  she's  like  the  rest  of  the  women —  thinks 
two  and  two '11  come  to  make  live,  if  she  cries  and 
bothers  enough  about  it.4 


These  poor  silly  women-things  —  they've  not  the 
sense  to  know  it's  no  use  denying  what's  proved.4 

Ah!  the  women  are  quick  enough  —  they're  quick 
enough.  They  know  the  rights  of  a  story  before  they 
hear  it,  and  can  tell  a  n>an  what  his  thoughts  are 
before  he  knows  'em  himself.4 


Mrs.  Poyser's  a  terrible  woman!  —  made  of  needles 
—  made  of  needles.  IJut  I  stick  to  Martin — I  shall 
always  stick  to  Martin.  And  he  likes  the  needles, 
God  help  him!  He's  a  cushion  made  on  purpo>e  for 
'em.  ...  I  don't  say  th'  apple  isu't  sound  at  the  core ; 


ADAM  BEDE.  73 

but  it  sets  my  teeth  on  edge— it  sets  my  teeth  on 
edge.4 


Nonsense !  It's  the  silliest  lie  a  sensible  man  like 
you  ever  believed,  to  say  a  woman  makes  a  house  com- 
fortable. It's  a  story  got  up,  because  the  women  are 
there,  and  something  must  be  found  for  'em  to  do.  I 
tell  you  there  isn't  a  thing  under  the  sun  that  needs  to 
be  done  at  all,  but  what  a  man  can  do  better  than  a 
woman,  unless  it's  bearing  children,  and  they  do  that 
in  a  poor  make-shift  way;  it  had  better  ha' been  left 
to  the  men  —  it  had  better  ha'  been  left  to  the  men.  I 
tell  you,  a  woman  'ull  bake  you  a  pie  every  week  of 
her  life,  and  never  come  to  see  that  the  hotter  th'  oven 
the  shorter  the  time.  I  tell  you,  a  woman  'ull  make 
your  porridge  every  day  for  twenty  years,  and  never 
think  of  measuring  the  proportion  between  the  meal 
and  the  milk  —  a  little  more  or  less,  she'll  think, 
doesn't  signify  :  the  porridge  icill  be  awk'ard  now  and 
then  :  if  it's  wrong,  it's  summat  in  the  meal,  or  it's 
summat  in  the  milk,  or  it's  summat  in  the  water.  .  .  . 
Don't  tell  me  about  God  having  made  such  creatures 
to  be  companions  for  us !  I  don't  say  but  lie  might 
make  Eve  to  be  a  companion  to  Adam  in  Paradise  — 
there  was  no  cooking  to  be  spoilt  there,  and  no  other 
woman  to  cackle  with  and  make  mischief;  though  you 
see  what  mischief  she  did  as  soon  as  she'd  an  oppor- 
tunity. But  it's  an  impious,  unscriptural  opinion  to 
say  a  woman's  a  blessing  to  a  man  now;  you  might 
as  well  say  adders  and  wasps,  and  foxes  and  wild 
beasts,  are  a  blessing,  when  they're  only  the  evils  that 


74  ADAM  BEDE. 

belong  to  this  state  o'  probation,  which  it's  lawful  for 
a  man  to  keep  as  clear  of  a.s  he  can  in  this  life,  hoping 
to  get  quit  of  'cm  forever  in  another  —  hoping  to  get 
quit  of  'cm  forever  in  another.4 


I  like  breakfast-time  better  than  any  other  moment 
in  the  clay.  No  dust  has  settled  on  one's  mind  then, 
and  it  presents  a  clear  mirror  to  the  rays  of  things.8 


The  commonest  man,  who  has  his  ounce  of  sense 
and  feeling,  is  conscious  of  the  difference  between  a 
lovely,  delicate  woman,  and  a  coarse  one.  Even  a 
dog  feels  a  difference  in  their  presence.  The  man  may 
be  no  better  able  than  the  dog  to  explain  the  influence 
the  more  refined  beauty  has  on  him,  but  he  feels  it.5 


When  what  is  good  comes  of  age  and  is  likely  to 
live,  there  is  reason  for  rejoicing.5 


A  man  can't  very  well  steal  a  bank-note  unless  the 
bank-note  lies  within  convenient  reach :  but  he  won't 
make  us  think  him  an  honest  man  because  he  begins 
to  howl  at  the  bank-note  for  falling  in  his  way.5 


A  man  can  never  do  anything  at  variance  with  his 
own  nature,  lie  carries  within  him  the  germ  of  his 
most  exceptional  action ;  and  if  we  wise  people  make 
eminent  fools  of  ourselves  on  any  particular  occasion, 
we  must  endure  the  legitimate  conclusion  that  we 
carry  a  lew  grains  of  folly  to  our  ounce  of  wisdom.5 


ADAM  BEDS.  75 

Consequences  are  unpitying.  Onr  deeds  carry  their 
terrible  consequences,  quite  apart  from  any  fluctua- 
tions that  went  before  —  consequences  that  are  hardly 
ever  confined  to  ourselves.  And  it  is  best  to  lix  our 
minds  on  that  certainty,  instead  of  considering  what 
may  be  the  elements  of  excuse  for  us.5 


There  is  no  sort  of  wrong  deed  of  which  a  man  can 
bear  the  punishment  alone  ;  you  can't  isolate  yourself, 
and  say  that  the  evil  which  is  in  you  shall  not  spread. 
Men's  lives  are  as  thoroughly  blended  with  each  other 
as  the  air  they  breathe  :  evil  spreads  as  necessarily  as 
disease.5 


It  is  not  for  us  men  to  apportion  the  shares  of  moral 
guilt  and  retribution.  We  find  it  impossible  to  avoid 
mistakes  even  in  determining  who  has  committed  a 
single  criminal  act,  and  the  problem  how  far  a  man  is 
to  be  held  responsible  for  the  unforeseen  consequences 
of  his  own  deed,  is  one  that  might  well  make  us  trem- 
ble to  look  into  it.  The  evil  consequences  that  may 
lie  folded  in  a  single  act  of  selfish  indulgence,  is  a 
thought  so  awful  that  it  ought  surely  to  awaken  some 
feeling  less  presumptuous  than  a  rash  desire  to  punish.* 


It's  a  deep  mystery  —  the  way  the  heart  of  man 
turns  to  one  woman  out  of  all  the  rest  he's  seen  i'  the 
world,  and  makes  it  easier  for  him  to  work  seven  year 
for  her,  like  Jacob  did  for  Rachel,  sooner  than  have 
any  other  woman  for  th'  asking.  I  often  think  of 
them  words,  "  And  Jacob  served  seven  years  for 


76  ADAM  REDE. 

Rachel;   and  they  scorned  to  him  but  a  few  days  for 
the  love  he  had  to  her."6 


Thee  mustna  undcrvally  prayer.  Prayer  mayna 
bring  money,  but  it  brings  us  what  no  money  can  buy 
—  a  power  to  keep  from  sin,  and  be  content  with  God's 
will,  whatever  lie  may  please  to  send.6 


Dinah  doesnt  hold  wi'  them  as  are  for  keeping  the 
Society  so  strict  to  themselves.  She  doesn't  mind 
about  making  folks  enter  the  Society,  so  as  they're  lit 
t'  enter  the  kingdom  o'  Cod.0 


Eh!  well,  if  the  Mcthodies  arc  fond  o'  trouble, 
they're  like  to  thrive:  it's  a  pity  they  canna  ha't  all, 
an'  take  it  away  from  them  as  donna  like  it.7 


One  morsel's  as  good  as  another  when  your  mouth's 
out  o'  taste.7 


Eh,  it's  poor  luck  for  the  platter  to  wear  well  when 
it's  broke  i'  two.7 


"Said?"  nay,  she'll  say  nothin'.  It's  on'y  the  men 
as  have  to  wait  till  folks  say  things  afore  they  lind  'em 
out.7 


Nonsense,  child !  Nature  never  makes  a  ferret  in 
the  shape  of  a  martin".  You'll  never  pcr.--ii.-nie  me  that 
I  can't  tell  what  men  are  by  their  out-ules.  li'  1  don't 
like  a  man's  looks,  depend  upon  it  I  shall  never  like 


AD  AIT  BEDS.  77 

him.  I  don't  want  to  know  people  that  look  ugly  and 
disagreeable,  anymore  than  I  want  to  taste  dishes  that 
look  disagreeable.  If  they  make  me  shudder  at  the 
first  glance,  I  say,  take  them  away.  An  ugly,  piggish, 
or  fishy  eye,  uow,  makes  me  feel  quite  ill ;  it's  like  a 
bad  smell.8 


Eh,  it's  a  poor  look-out  when  th'  ould  foulks  docsna 
like  the  young  ims.9 


It  isn't  right  for  old  nor  young  naythcv  to  make  a 
bargain  all  o'  their  own  side.  What's  good  for  oue  's 
good  all  round  i'  the  long  run.9 


I'm  no  friend  to  young  fellows  a-marrying  afore 
they  know  the  difference  atwceii  a  crab  au' a  apple; 
but  they  may  wait  o'er  long.3 


I  should  be  loath  to  leave  th'  old  place,  and  the  par- 
ish where  [  was  bred  and  born,  and  father  afore  me. 
"\Ve  should  leave  our  roots  behind  us,  I  doubt,  and 
nivcr  thrive  again.9 


EXD   OF   "ADAM   BEDK." 


THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

(79) 


THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 


JOURNEYING  down  the  Rhone  on  a  summer's  clay, 
you  have  perhaps  felt  the  sunshine  made  dreary  by 
those  ruined  villages  which  stud  the  banks  in  certain 
parts  of  its  course,  telling  how  the  swift  river  once 
rose,  like  an  angry,  destroying  god,  sweeping  down  the 
feeble  generations  whose  breath  is  in  their  nostrils, 
and  making  their  dwellings  a  desolation.  Strange 
contrast,  you  may  have  thought,  between  the  effect 
produced  on  us  by  these  dismal  remnants  of  common- 
place houses,  which  in  their  best  days  were  but  the 
sign  of  a  sordid  life,  belonging  in  all  its  details  to  our 
own  vulgar  era;  and  the  effect  produced  by  those 
ruins  on  the  castled  Rhine,  which  have  crumbled  and 
mellowed  into  such  harmony  with  the  green  and  rocky 
steeps,  that  they  seem  to  have  a  natural  fitness,  like 
the  mountain-pine  :  nay,  even  in  the  day  when  they 
were  built  they  must  have  had  this  fitness,  as  if  they 
had  been  raised  by  an  earth-born  race,  who  had  in- 
herited from  their  mighty  parent  a  sublime  instinct  of 
form.  And  that  was  a  day  of  romance!  If  those  rob- 
ber-barons were  somewhat  grim  and  drunken  ogres, 
they  had  a  certain  grandeur  of  the  wild  beast  in  them 
—  they  were  forest  boars  with  tusks,  tearing  and  rend- 


82  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

ing,  not  the  ordinary  domestic  grunter;  they  repre- 
sented the  demon  forces  forever  in  collision  with 
beauty,  virtue,  and  the  gentle  uses  of  life;  they  made 
a  fine  contrast  in  the  picture  with  the  wandering  min- 
strel, the  soft-lipped  princess,  the  pious  recluse,  and 
the  timid  Israelite.  That  was  a  time  of  color,  when 
the  sunlight  fell  on  glancing  steel  and  floating  banners  ; 
a  time  of  adventure  and  fierce  struggle  —  nay.  of  liv- 
ing, religious  art  and  religious  enthusiasm;  for  were 
not  cathedrals  built  in  those  days,  and  did  not  great 
emperors  leave  their  Western  palaces  to  die  before  the 
infidel  strongholds  in  the  sacred  East?  Therefore  it 
is  that  these  Rhine  castles  thrill  me  with  a  sense  of 
poetry :  they  belong  to  the  grand  historic  life  of  hu- 
manity, and  raise  up  for  me  the  vision  of  an  epoch. 
But  these  dead-tinted,  hollow-eyed,  angular  skeletons 
of  villages  on  the  Rhone  oppress  me  with  the  feeling 
that  human  life  —  very  much  of  it  —  is  a  narrow,  ugly, 
grovelling  existence,  which  even  calamity  does  not 
elevate,  but  rather  tends  to  exhibit  in  all  its  bare  vul- 
garity of  conception;  and  I  have  a  cruel  conviction 
that  the  lives  these  ruins  are  the  traces  of,  were  part 
of  a  gross  sum  of  obscure  vitality,  that  will  be  swept 
into  the  same  oblivion  with  the  generations  of  ants 
and  beavers. 


That  is  the  path  we  all  like  when  we  set  out  on  our 
abandonment  of  egoism  —  the  path  of  marlyrdom  and 
endurance,  where  the  palm-branches  grow,  rather  than 
the  steep  highway  of  tolerance,  just  allowance,  and 


THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  83 

self-blame,  where  there  are  no  leafy  honors  to  be 
gathered  and  worn. 


Renunciation    remains    sorrow,    though  a  sorrow 
borne  willingly. 


We  arc  not  apt  to  fear  for  the  fearless,  when  we 
are  companions  in  their  danger. 


Retribution  may  come  from  any  voice  :  the  hardest, 
crudest,  most  imbruted  urchin  at  the  street-corner 
can  inflict  it:  surely  help  and  pity  are  rarer  things  — 
more  needful  for  the  righteous  to  bestow. 


What  quarrel,  what  harshness,  what  unbelief  in  each 
other  can  subsist  in  the  presence  of  a  great  calamity, 
when  all  the  artificial  vesture  of  our  life  is  gone,  and 
we  are  all  one  with  each  other  in  primitive  mortal 
needs? 


We  judge  others  according  to  results ;  how  else?  — 
not  knowing  the  process  by  which  results  are  arrived 
at. 


At  the  entrance  of  the  chill  dark  cavern,  we  turn 
with  unworn  courage  from  the  warm  light;  but  how, 
when  we  have  trodden  far  in  the  damp  darkness,  and 
have  begun  to  be  faint  and  weary  —  how,  if  there  is  a 
sudden  opening  above  us,  and  we  are  invited  back 
again  to  the  life-nourishing  day?  The  leap  of  natural 
longing  from  under  the  pressure  of  pain  is  so  strong, 


84  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

that  all  less  immediate  motives  are  likely  to  be  for- 
gotten—  till  the  pain  has  been  escaped  from. 


Watch  your  own  speech,  and  notice  how  it  is  guided 
by  your  less  conscious  purposes. 


The  conduct  that  issues  from  a  moral  conflict  has 
often  so  close  a  resemblance  to  vice,  that  the  distinc- 
tion escapes  all  outward  judgments,  founded  on  a 
mere  comparison  of  actions. 


Anger  and  jealousy  can  no  more  bear  to  lose  sight 
of  their  objects  than  love. 


Milk  and  mildness  are  not  the  best  things  for  keep- 
ing, and  when  they  turn  only  a  little  sour,  they  may 
disagree  with  young  stomachs  seriously.  I  have  often 
wondered  whether  those  early  Madonnas  of  llaphael, 
with  the  blond  faces  and  somewhat  stupid  expression, 
kept  their  placidity  undisturbed  when  their  strong- 
limbed,  strong-willed  boys  got  a  little  too  old  to  do 
without  clothing.  I  think  they  must  have  been  given 
to  feeble  remonstrance,  getting  more  and  more  peevish 
as  it  became  more  and  more  ineffectual. 


Poor  relations  are  undeniably  irritating  —  their  ex- 
istence is  so  entirely  uncalled  for  on  our  part,  and  they 
are  almost  always  very  faulty  people. 


These  bitter  sorrows  of  childhood!  when  sorrow  is 
all  new  and  strange,  when  hope  has  not  yet,  got,  wings 


THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  85 

to  fly  beyond  the  day  and  weeks,  and  the  space  from 
summer  to  summer  seems  measureless. 


"  All,  my  child,  you  will  have  real  troubles  to  fret 
about  bj'-ancl-by,"  is  the  consolation  we  have  almost 
all  of  us  had  administered  to  us  in  our  childhood,  and 
have  repeated  to  other  children  since  we  have  been 
grown  up.  ~\Yc  have  all  of  us  sobbed  so  pitcously, 
standing  with  tiny  bare  legs  above  our  little  socks, 
when  we  lost  sight  of  our  mother  or  nurse  in  some 
strange  place;  but  we  can  no  longer  recall  (he  poign- 
ancy of  that  moment  and  weep  over  it,  as  we  do  over 
the  remembered  sufferings  of  live  or  ten  years  ago. 
Every  one  of  those  keen  moments  has  left  its  trace, 
and  lives  in  us  still,  but  such  trac.es  have  blent  them- 
selves irrecoverably  with  the  firmer  texture  of  our 
youth  and  manhood  ;  and  so  it  comes  that  we  can  look 
on  at  the  troubles  of  our  children  with  a  smiling  dis- 
belief in  the  reality  of  their  pain.  Is  there  any  one 
who  can  recover  the  experience  of  his  childhood,  not 
merely  with  a  memory  of  what  he  did  and  what  hap- 
pened to  him,  of  what  he  liked  and  disliked  when  he 
was  in  frock  and  trousers,  but  with  an  intimate  pen- 
etration, a  revived  consciousness  of  what  he  felt  then  — 
when  it  was  so  long  from  one  Midsummer  to  another? 
what  he  felt  when  his  school-fellows  shut  him  out  of 
their  game  because  he  would  pitch  the  ball  wrong  out 
of  mere  will'ulness;  or  on  a  rainy  day  in  the  holidays, 
when  he  didn't  know  how  to  amuse  himself,  and  fell 
from  idleness  into  mischief,  from  mischief  into  de- 
iiance,  und  from  defiance  into  sulkiness ;  or  when  his 


86  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

mother  absolutely  refused  to  let  him  have  a  tailed  coat 
that  "  half,"  although  every  other  boy  of  his  a  ire.  had 
gone  into  tails  already?  Surely  if  we  could  recall  that 
early  bitterness,  and  the  dim  guesses,  the  strangely 
perspectivcless  conception  of  life  that  gave  the  bitter- 
ness its  intensity,  we  should  not  pooh-pooh  the  griefs 
of  our  children. 


Childhood  has  no  forebodings  ;  but  then,  it  is  soothed 
by  no  memories  of  outlived  sorrow. 


There  is  no  hopelessness  so  sad  as  that  of  early 
youth,  when  the  soul  is  made  up  of  wants,  and  has  no 
long  memories,  no  superadded  life  in  the  life  of  others  ; 
though  we  who  look  on  think  lightly  of  such  prem- 
ature despair,  as  if  our  vision  of  the  future  lightened 
the  blind  sufferer's  present. 

Maggie  in  her  brown  frock,  with  her  eyes  reddened 
and  her  heavy  hair  pushed  buck,  looking  from  the  bed 
where  her  father  lay,  to  the  dull  walls  of  this  sad 
chamber  which  was  the  centre  of  her  world,  was  a 
creature  full  of  eager,  passionate  longings  for  all  that 
was  beautiful  and  glad;  thirsty  for  all  knowledge; 
with  an  ear  straining  after  dreamy  music  that  died 
away  and  would  not  come  near  to  her;  with  a  blind 
unconscious  yearning  for  something  that  would  link 
together  the  wonderful  impressions  of  this  mysterious 
life,  ami  give  her  soul  a  sense  of  home  in  it. 

No  wonder,  when  there  is  this  contrast  between  the 
outward  and  the  imvard,  that  painful  collisions  come 
of  it. 


THE  MILL   ON  TUE  FLOSS.  87 

Poor  child  !  it  was  very  early  for  her  to  know  one  of 
those  supreme  moments  in  life  when  all  we  have  hoped 
or  delighted  in,  all  we  can  dread  or  endure,  falls  ;i\vay 
from  our  regard  us  insignificant  —  is  lost,  like  a  trivial 
memory,  in  that  simple,  primitive  love  which  knits  us 
to  the  beings  who  have  been  nearest  to  us,  in  their 
times  of  helplessness  or  of  anguish. 


Maggie  had  that  strange  dreamy  weariness  which 
comes  from  watching  in  a  sick-room  through  the  chill 
hours  of  early  twilight  and  breaking  day  —  in  which 
the  outside  daylight  life  seems  to  have  no  importance, 
and  to  l)e  a  mere  margin  to  the  hours  in  the  darkened 
chamber. 


Poor  child!  as  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  win- 
dow-inane, with  her  hands  clasped  tighter  and  tighter, 
and  her  foot  beating  the  ground,  she  was  as  lonely  in 
her  trouble  as  if  she  had  been  the  only  girl  in  the 
civilized  world  of  that  day  who  had  come  out  of  her 
school-life  with  a  soul  untrained  for  inevitable  strug- 
gles—  with  no  other  part  of  her  inherited  share  in  the 
hard-won  treasures  of  thought,  which  generations  of 
painful  toil  have  laid  up  for  the  race  of  men,  than 
shreds  and  patches  of  feeble  literature  and  false  his- 
tory—  with  much  futile  information  about  Saxon  and 
other  kings  of  doubtful  example  —  but  unhappily  quite 
without  that  knowledge' of  the  irreversible  laws  within 
an  1  without  her,  which,  governing  the  habits,  becomes 
morality,  and,  developing  the  feelings  of  submission 
and  dependence,  becomes  religion  :  —  as  lonely  in  her 


88  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

trouble  as  if  every  other  girl  besides  herself  had  been 
cherished  and  watched  over  by  elder  minds,  not  for- 
getful of  their  own  early  time,  when  need  was  keen 
and  impulse  strong. 


Two  hours  ago,  as  Tom  was  Avalking  to  St.  Ogg's, 
ho  saw  the  distant  future  before  him,  as  he  might  have 
seen  a  tempting  stretch  of  smooth  sandy  beach  beyond 
a  belt  of  flinty  shingles ;  he  was  on  the  grassy  bank, 
then,  and  thought  tin:  shingles  might  soon  be  passed. 
But  now  his  feet  were  on  the  sharp  stones;  the  belt 
of  shingles  had  widened,  and  the  stretch  of  sand  hud 
dwindled  into  narrowness. 


Of  those  two  young  hearts  Tom's  suflVred  the  most 
unmixed  pain,  for  Maggie,  with  all  her  keen  suscepti- 
bility, yet  felt  as  if  the  sorrow  made  larger  room  for 
her  love  to  flow  in,  and  gave  breathing-space  to  her 
passionate  nature.  No  true  boy  feels  that :  ho  would 
rather  go  and  slay  the  Nemean  lion,  or  perform  any 
round  of  heroic  labors,  than  endure  perpetual  appeals 
to  his  pity,  for  evils  over  which  he  can  make  no  con- 
quest. 


"While  Maggie's  life-struggles  had  lain  almost  en- 
tirely within  her  own  soul,  one  shadowy  army  lighting 
another,  and  the  slain  shadows  forever  rising  again, 
Tom  was  engaged  in  a  dustier,  noisier  warfare,  grap- 
pling with  more  substantial  obstacles,  and  gaining 
more  definite  conquests.  So  it  has  been  since  the 
days  of  Hecuba,  and  of  Hector,  Tamer  of  horses  :  iu- 


THE  MILL    ON  THE  FLOSS.  89 

side  the  crates,  the  women  with  streaming  hair  and 
uplifted  hands  offering  prayers,  watching  the  world's 
combat  from  afar,  liiliny  their  Ionic  empty  days  with 
memories  and  fears  :  outside,  the  men,  in  tierce  strun'- 
iile  with  things  divine  and  human,  quenching  memory 
in  the  stronger  li.u'ht  of  puri)ose,  losing  the  sense  of 
dread  and  even  of  wounds  in  the  hurrying  ardor  of 
action. 


It  is  a  pathetic  si.ujht  and  a  striking  example  of  the 
complexity  introduced  inlo  the  c'liioiions  by  a  liiph 
state  of  civili/.alion  —  the  sia'lit  of  a  fashionably  drest 
female  in  iri'ief.  From  the  sorrow  of  a  Hottentot  to 
that  of  a  woman  in  lance  buckram  sleeves,  with  sever;il 
bracelets  on  each  arm.  ;;n  architectural  bonne!,  and 
delicate  ribbon-strings — what  a  loi;^  scries  of  u'rada- 
tioiis!  In  the  enlightened  child  of  civ  'Hi/at  ion  the 
abandonment  characteristic  of  uTief  is  checked  and 
varied  in  the  subtlest  manner,  so  as  to  present  an 
interesting  problem  to  the  analytic  mind.  If,  with  a 
crushed  heart  and  eyes  hall-blinded  by  the  mist  of 
tears,  she  were  to  walk  with  a  too  devious  step  through 
a  door-place.1,  she  miylit  crush  her  buckram  sleeves 
too,  and  the  deep  consciousness  of  this  possibility  pro- 
duces a  composition  of.  forces  by  which  she  takes  a 
line  that  just  clears  the  door-post.  IVrceivin^  that 
the  tears  are  hurryimj;  fast,  she  unpins  her  strings  and 
throws  them  lanmiidly  backward  —  a  touching  !;esl tire, 
indicative,  even  in  the  deepest.  ^Inom,  of  the  hope.'  in 
future  dry  moments  when  cap-Mrinu's  will  once  moru 
have  a  charm.  As  the  tears  subside,  a  little,  and  with 


90  TffE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

her  head  leaning  backward  at  the  angle  that  will  not 
injure  her  bonnet,  she  endures  that  terrible  moment 
•when  grief,  which  has  made  all  things  else  a  weariness, 
has  itself  become  weary;  she  looks  down  pensively  at 
her  bracelets,  and  adjusts  their  clasps  with  that  pretty 
studied  fortuity  which  would  be  gratifying  to  her  mind 
if  it  were  once  more  in  a  calm  and  healthy  state. 


People  who  live  at  a  distance  arc  naturally  less 
faulty  than  those  immediately  under  our  own  eyes; 
and  it  seems  superfluous,  when  we  consider  the  remote 
geographical  position  of  the  Ethiopians,  and  how  very 
little  the  Greeks  had  to  do  witli  them,  to  inquire  fur- 
ther why  Homer  calls  them  "  blameless." 


Jealousy  is  never  satisfied  with  anything  short  of  an 
omniscience  that  would  detect  the  subtlest  fold  of  the 
heart. 


The  happiest  women,  like  the  happiest  nations,  have 
no  history. 


"We  could  never  have  loved  the  earth  so  well  if  we 
had  had  no  childhood  in  it,  —  if  it  were  not  the  earlh 
where  the  same  (lowers  come1  up  again  every  spring 
that  we  used  to  gather  with  our  tiny  ting"rs  a^  we  vat 
lisping  to  ourselves  on  the  grass — the  same  hips  and 
haws  on  the  autumn  hedge-rows  —  the  same  redbreasts 
that  wo  used  to  call  "(iod's  birds,"  because  they  did 
110  harm  to  the  precious  crops.  What  novelty  is  worth 


THE  HILL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  91 

that  sweet  monotony  where  everything  is  known,  and 
loved  because  it  is  known? 

The  wood  I  Avalk  in  on  this  mild  May-day,  with  the 
young  yellow-brown  foliage  of  the  oaks  between  me 
and  the  bine  sky,  the  white  star-flowers  and  the  blue- 
eyed  speedwell  and  the  ground  ivy  at  my  feet  —  what 
grove  of  tropic  palms,  what  strange  ferns  or  splendid 
broad-petallcd  blossoms,  could  ever  thrill  such  deep 
and  delicate  iibres  within  me  as  this  home-scene? 
These  familiar  flowers,  these  well-remembered  bird- 
notes,  this  sky,  with  its  fitful  brightness,  these  fur- 
rowed and  grassy  fields,  each  with  a  sort  of  personality 
given  to  it  by  the  capricious  hedge-rows  —  such  tiling's 
as  these  are  the  mother-tongue  of  our  imagination,  the 
language  that  is  laden  with  all  the  subtle  inextricable 
associations  the  Heeling  hours  of  our  childhood  left 
behind  (hem.  Our  delight,  in  the  sunshine  on  the  decp- 
bladed  grass  to-day,  might  be  no  more  than  the  faint 
perception  of  wearied  souls,  if  it  were  not,  for  the  sun- 
shine and  the  grass  in  the  far-off  years  which  still  live 
in  us,  and  transform  our  perception  into  love. 


There  is  no  sense  of  ease  like  the  ease  we  felt  in 
those;  scenes  where  we  were  born,  where  objects  be- 
came dear  to  us  before  we  had  known  the  labor  of 
choice,  and  where  the  outer  world  seemed  only  an  ex- 
tension of  our  o\vn  personality  :  we  accepted  and  loved 
it  as  we  accepted  our  o\vn  sense  of  existence  and  our 
o\vn  limbs.  Very  commonplace,  even  ugly,  that:  fur- 
niture of  our  early  home  might  look  if  it  were  put,  up 
to  auction;  an  improved  taste  in  upholstery  scorns  it: 


02  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

and  is  not  the  striving  after  something  better  and 
but. l (..'r  in  01:1'  surroundintrs,  the  trrand  characteristic 
that  distinguishes  man  from  tlic  bruU — or,  to  satisfy 
a  scrupulous  accuracy  of  definition,  that  di>ti;iai;i>lies 
the  ]jriti>h  man  from  tin.'  foreign  brute?  I!;;!  heaven 
knows  where  that  strivin.tr  miirht  lead  u<,  if  our  ali'-c- 
tions  had  not  a  trie];  of  twinintr.  round  tlio-e  old  in- 
ferior tilings  —  if  the  loves  and  sanctities  of  our  life  had 
no  deep  immovable  roots  in  memory.  One's  delight 
in  an  elderberry  bush  overhanging  the  confuted  leafage 
of  a  hcdirc-row  bank,  as  a  more  trladdenintr  sitrht  than 
tlie  finest  ei-tus  or  fuchsia  spreading  itself  on  Hie 
softest  undulating  turf,  is  an  entirely  nnjuMifiable  pref- 
erence to  a  ir.irsery-u'urdener,  or  to  any  of  those 
severely  retrulated  minds  who  are  free  from  the  weak- 
ness of  any  attachment  that  does  not  rest  on  a  demon- 
strable superiority  of  qualities.  And  there  is  no  better 
reason  for  preferring  this  elderberry  bush  than  that  it 
stirs  an  early  memory  —  that  it  is  no  novelty  in  my  life, 
speaking  to  me  merely  through  my  pre>ent  sensibil- 
ities to  form  and  color,  but  the  lontr  companion  of  my 
existence,  that  wove  itself  into  my  j:>ys  when  joy.s 
were  vivid. 


TVe  are  all  apt  to  believe  what  the  world  believes 
about  us. 


THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  [)3 

conscious  rectitude  of  purpose,  narrowness  of  imagin- 
ation and  intellect,  great  power  of  self-control,  and  a 
disposition  to  exert  control  over  others  —  prejudices 
come  us  the  natural  food  of  tendencies  which  can  get 
no  sustenance  out  of  that  complex,  fragmentary,  doubt- 
provoking  knowledge  which  we  call  truth.  Let  a  prej- 
udice be  bequeathed,  carried  in  the  air,  adopted  by 
hearsay,  caught  iu  through  the  eye  —  however  it  may 
come,  these  minds  will  give  it  a  habitation:  it  is  some- 
thing to  assert  strongly  and  bravely,  something  to  lill 
up  the  void  of  spontaneous  ideas,  something  to  impose 
on  others  with  the  authority  of  conscious  right:  it  is 
at  once  a  stall"  and  a  baton.  Every  prejudice  that  will 
answer  these  purposes  is  self-evident. 


A  character  at  unity  with  itself — that  performs 
what  it  intends,  subdues  every  counteracting  impulse, 
and  has  no  visions  beyond  the  distinctly  possible  —  is 
strong  bv  its  very  negations. 


A  boy's  sheepishness  is  by  no  means  a  sign  of  over- 
mastering reverence;  and  while  you  are  making  en- 
couraging advances  to  him  under  the  idea  that  he  is 
overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of  your  age  and  wisdom,  ten 
to  one  he  is  thinking  you  extremely  queer.  The  only 
consolation  I  can  suggest  to  you  is,  that  the  Greek 
boys  probably  thought  the  same  of  Aristotle.  It  is 
only  when  you  have  mastered  a  restive  hor>e,  or 
thrashed  a  drayman,  or  have  got  a  gun  in  your  hand, 
that  these  shy  juniors  feel  you  to  be  a  truly  admirable 
and  enviable  character. 


94  THE  MILL   OX  THE  FLOSS. 

Nature  lias  the  deep  cunning  which  Ifules  itself 
inuler  the  appearance  of  openness,  so  that  simple 
people  think  they  can  see  through  her  quite  well,  ami 
all  the  while  she  is  secretly  preparing  a  refutation  of 
their  confident  prophecies.  Under  these  average  boy- 
ish physiognomies  that  she  seems  to  turn  oil'  by  the 
gross,  she  conceals  some  of  her  most  riirid.  inflexible 
purposes,  some  of  her  most  unmodiliable  characters. 


The  great  problem  of  the  shifting  relation  between 
passion  and  duty  is  clear  to  no  man  who  is  capable  of 
apprehending  it :  the  question  whether  the  moment 
has  come  in  which  a  man  has  fallen  below  the  possi- 
bility of  a  renunciation  that  will  carry  any  ellicacy, 
and  must  accept  the  sway  of  a  passion  against  which 
lie  had  struggled  as  a  trespass,  is  one  for  which  we 
have  no  master-key  that  will  lit  all  cases.  The  cas- 
uists have  become  a  by-word  of  reproach  ;  but  their 
perverted  spirit  of  minute  discrimination  was  the 
shadow  of  a  truth  to  which  eyes  and  hearts  are  too 
often  fatally  sealed  —  the  truth,  that  moral  judgments 
must  remain  false  and  hollow,  unless  they  are  cheeked 
and  enlightened  by  a  perpetual  reference  to  the  special 
circumstances  that  mark  the  individual  Int. 

All  people  of  broad,  strong  sen.-e  have  an  in^tincMve 
repugnance  to  the  men  of  maxims,  becau-e  Mich 
people  early  discern  that  the  i:iy~-teriou>  complexiiy 
of  our  lit',-  is  not  to  be  e.a  iru'-cd  by  m  ;xi..i--.  and  that 
to  lace  ourselves  up  in  formulas  of  tha'.  sort  i>  lo 
repress  all  the  divine  prompting  a;:d  inspirations 
that  spring  from  growing  insight  ana  sympathy.  And 


THE  MILL    ON  THE  FLOSS.  95 

the  man  of  maxims  is  the  popular  representative  of 
the  minds  that  are  guided  in  (heir  moral  judgment 
solely  by  general  rules,  thinking  that  these  will  lead 
them  to  justice  by  a  ready-made  patent  method,  with- 
out the  trouble  of  exerting  patience,  discrimination,  im- 
partiality—  without  any  care  to  assure  themselves 
whether  they  have  the  insight  that  comes  from  a 
hardly-earned  estimate  of  temptation,  or  from  a  life 
vivid  and  intense  enough  to  have  created  a  wide 
fellow-feeling  with  all  that  is  human. 


Iteration,  like   friction,  is  likely   to  generate   heat 
instead  of  progress. 


"\Ve  perhaps  never  detect  how  much  of  our  social 
demeanor  is  made  up  of  artificial  airs,  until  we  see  a 
person  who  is  at  once  beautiful  and  simple:  without 
the  beauty,  we  are  apt  to  call  simplicity  awkwardness. 


There  is  nothing  more  widely  misleading  than  sagac- 
ity if  it  happens  to  get  on  (he  wrong  scent;  and  sa- 
gacity, persuaded  that  men  usually  act  and  speak  from 
disiinct  moiives,  whh  a  consciously  proposed  cud  in 
view,  is  certain  to  waste  its  energies  on  imaginary 
game.  Plotting  covelousness,  and  deliberate  coufriv- 
unce,  in  order  to  compa.-s  a  sellish  end,  are  nowhere 
abundant  but  in  the  world  of  the  dramatist:  they 


9G  THE  XTLL    O.V  THE  FLOSS. 

demand  too  intense  a  mental  action  for  many  of  our 
fellow  pari.-hioii'Ts  to  he;  guilty  of  th;-m.  It  i>  ea>y 
enough  to  spoil  the  lives  of  our  neighbors  without 
taking  so  much  trouble:  we  can  do  i;  by  lax.y  acqui- 
escence and  la/.y  omission,  by  trivial  falsities  for 
which  we  hardly  know  a  reason,  by  small  frauds  neu- 
tralized by  small  extravagancies,  by  maladroit  llat- 
tt-ries.  and  clumsily  improvised  insinuations.  W(.-  li\'(j 
from  hand  to  month,  most  of  u^,  with  a  small  family 
of  immediate  d"sires —  \ve  do  li!'Ui  eNe  than  ^n;:tc!i  a 
morsel  to  sati-fy  the  hungry  brood,  rarely  thinking  of 
seed-corn  or  the  next  year's  crop. 


All  long-known  objects,  even  a  mere  window  fasten- 
ing or  a  particular  door-latch,  have  sounds  which  are 
a  sort  of  recognized  voice  to  ns  —  a  voice  that  will 
thrill  and  awaken,  when  it  has  been  used  to  touch 
deep-lying  libres. 


So  deeply  inherent  is  it  in  this  life  of  ours  that  men 
have  to  sutler  for  each  other's  sins,  so  inevitably  d illu- 
sive is  human  sull'ering.  that  even  justice  makes  its 
victims,  and  we  can  conceive.1  no  retribution  that  does 
not  spread  beyond  i's  mark  in  pulsations  of  unmerited 
pain. 


It  was  one  of  those  dangerous  moments  \vhen  speech 
i^  a  1  once  sincere  and  deeep;  ivc  —  wh  -n  feeling,  ri-ing 
high  above  its  average  depth,  leaves  ilood-marks  which 
are  never  reached  again. 


THE  MILL    ON  THE  FLOSS.  97 


The  muldlc-a^ed,  who  have  lived  through  their 
strongest  emotions,  but  are  yet  in  the  time  when 
memory  is  still  half  passionate  and  not  merely  con- 
templative, should  surely  be  a  sort  of  natural  priest- 
hood, whom  life  has  disciplined  and  consecrated  to  he 
the  refun'e  and  rescue  of  early  stumblers  and  victims 
of  sell-despair.  Most  of  us,  at  some  moment  in  our 
yountx  lives,  Avould  have  welcomed  a  priest  of  that 
natural  order  in  any  sort  of  canonicals  or  nncanonicals, 
but  had  to  scramble  upwards  into  all  the  ditliculties  of 
nineteen  entirely  without  such  aid. 


It  was  one  of  those  moments  of  implicit  revelation 
which  will  sometimes  happen  even  between  people  who 
meet  quite  transiently  —  on  a  mile's  journey,  perhaps, 
or  when  resting  by  the  wayside.  There  is  always  this 
possibility  of  a  word  or  look  from  a  stranyer  to  keep 
alive  the  sense  of  human  brotherhood. 


It  is  a  wonderful  subduer,  this  need  of  love  —  this 
hunger  of  the  heart  —  as  peremptory  as  that  other 
hunger  by  which  Nature1  forces  us  to  submit  to  the 
yoke,  and  change  the  face  of  the  world. 


lie  in 


98  THE  If  ILL    ON  TUE  FLOSS. 

curves  down  to  the  delicate  wrist,  with  its  tiniest, 
almost  imperceptible  nicks  in  the  linn  softness.  A 
woman's  arm  touched  the  soul  of  a  i^reat  seu'pior  two 
thousand  years  ago,  so  that  he  wrought  an  ima_re  of 
it  for  the;  Parthenon  which  moves  us  still  as  it  elasps 
loving  y  the  time-worn  marble  of  a  headless  trunk. 
Mamie's  was  sneli  an  ana  as  that  —  and  it  had  the 
warm  tints  of  life. 


Until  every  good  man  is  brave-,  we  must  expect  to 
find  many  good  women  timid:  too  timid  even  to  be- 
lieve in  the  correctness  of  their  own  best  promptings, 
when  these  would  place  them  in  a  minority. 


All  yielding  is  attended  with  a  less  vivid  conscious- 
ness than  resistance  ;  it  is  the  partial  sleep  of  thought; 
it  is  the  submergence  of  our  own  personality  by 
another. 


Mrs.  Tnlliver,  as  we  have  seen,  was  not  without  in- 
fluence over  her  husband.  Xo  woman  is;  she  can 
always  incline  him  to  do  either  what,  she  wishes,  or 
the  reverse. 


There  are  two  expensive  forms  of  education,  either 
of  which  a  parent  may  procure  for  hi-  son  by  sending 
him  as  solitary  pupil  to  a  clergyman:  one  is,  the 
enjoyment  of  I  he  reverend  gentleman's  undivided 
neglect;  the  other  is,  the  endurance  of  the  reverend 
gentleman's  undivided  attention. 


THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  99 

It  is  pi'ecisely  the  proudest  and  most  obstinate  men 
who  arc  the  most  liable  to  shift  their  position  and  con- 
tradict themselves  :  everything  is  easier  to  them  than. 
to  face  the  simple  fact  that  they  have  been  thoroughly 
defeated,  and  must  begin  life  anew. 


Mrs.  Tulliver  had  lived  thirteen  years  with  her  hus- 
band, yet  she  retained  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  early 
married  life  a  facility  of  saying  things  which  drove 
him  in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  one  she  desired. 
Some  minds  are  wonderful  for  keeping  their  bloom  in 
this  way,  as  a  patriarchal  gold-fish  apparently  retains 
to  the  last  its  youthful  illusion  that  it  can  swim  in  a 
straight  line  beyond  the  encircling  glass.  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver was  an  amiable  tish  of  this  kind,  and.  after  run- 
ning her  head  against  the  same  resist  ing  medium  for 
thirteen  years,  would  go  at  it  again  to-day  with  uu- 
d ailed  alacrity. 


Mrs.  Tullivcr's  monotonous  pleading  had  doubtless 
its  share  of  force  ;  it  might  even  be  comparable  to  that 
proverbial  feather  which  has  the  credit  or  discredit 
of  breaking  the  camel's  back;  though,  on  a  strictly 
impartial  view,  the  blame  ought  rather  to  lie  with  the 
previous  weight  of  feathers  which  had  already  placed 
the  back  in  such  imminent  peril,  Unit  an  otherwise  in- 
nocent feather  could  not  settle  on  it  without  mischief. 


100  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

knave  to  frustrate  a  weaker.  La\v  was  a  sort  of  cock- 
fight, in  which  it  was  tin-  business  of  injured  honesty 
to  get  a  game-bird  will)  the  best  pluck  and  the  .strong- 
est spurs,. 


Mr.  Tullivcr  regarded  his  parson  with  dutiful  re- 
spect, as  he  did  everything  else  belonging  to  the 
church-service;;  but  he  considered  that  church  was 
one  tiling  and  common-sense  another,  and  he  wanted 
nobody  to  tell  hi-ii  what  common-sense  was.  Certain 
seeds  which  are  required  to  find  a  nidus  for  themselves 
under  unfavorable  circumstances,  have  been  supplied 
by  nature  with  an  apparatus  of  hooks,  so  that  they  wil. 
get  a  hold  on  very  unreceptive  surfaces.  The  spiritual 
seed  which  had  been  scattered  over  Mr.  Tullivcr  had 
apparently  been  destitute  of  any  corresponding  pro- 
vision, and  had  slipped  oft'  to  the  winds  again,  from  a 
total  absence  of  hooks. 


Feeble  limbs  easily  resign  themselves  to  be  tethered, 
and  when  we  are  subdued  by  sickness  it  seems  pos- 
sible to  us  to  fullil  pledges  which  the  old  vigor  comes 
back  and  breaks. 


There  is  something  st  rannvly  winning  to  most  women 
in  that  oiler  of  the  llrm  arm-  the  h'-Ip  is  no;  wauti-d 
physically  at  that  moment,  but  the  si  ;i^e  of  hdp  —  I  he 
piv.-ciice  of  strength  ; ha!  is  out :-!,!;•  the ::i  :;;..!  yet  l heirs 
—  meets  a  continual  want  of  the  imagination. 


THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.  '        101 

self  occasionally  quarters  an  inconvenient  parasite  on 
an  animal  towards  whom  she  has  otherwise  no  ill-will. 
"What  then?  We  admire  her  care  for  the  parasite. 


It  was  Mr.  Stelling's  favorite  metaphor,  that  the 
classics  and  geometry  constituted  that  culture  of  the 
mind  which  prepared  it  for  the  reception  of  any  subse- 
quent crop.  I  say  nothing  against  Mr.  Stelling's  the- 
ory: if  we  are  to  have  one  regimen  for  all  minds,  his 
seems  to  me  as  good  as  nny  other.  I  only  know  it 
turned  out  as  uncomfortably  for  Torn  Tnlliver  as  if  he 
had  been  plied  wiih  cheese  in  order  to  remedy  a  gastric 
weakness  which  prevented  him  from  digesting  it.  It 
is  astonishing  what  a  different  result  one  gets  by 
changing  Hie  metaphor!  Once  call  the  brain  an  intel- 
lectual stomach,  and  one's  ingenious  conception  of  the 
classics  and  geometry  as  ploughs  and  harro\vs  seems 
to  settle  nothing,  ilnt  then  it  is  open  to  some  one  else 
to  follow  great  authorities,  and  call  the  mind  a  sheet 
of  white  paper  or  a  mirror,  in  which  case  one's  knowl- 
edge of  the  digestive  process  becomes  quite  irrelevant. 
It  was  doubtless  an  ingenious  idea  to  call  the  camel 
the  ship  of  the  desert,  but  it  would  hardly  lead  one  far 
in  training  that  useful  beast.  O  Aristotle  !  if  you. had 
had  the  advantage  of  being  "the  freshest  modern'' 
instead  of  the  greatest  ancient,  would  you  not  have 
mingled  your  praise  of  metaphorical  speech,  as  a  sign 
of  high  intelligence,  with  alamentation  that  intelligence 
so  rarely  shows  itself  in  speech  without  metaphor.  — 
that  we  can  so  seldom  declare  what  a  thing  is,  except 
by  saying  it  is  something  else? 


102          THE  MILL  Qy  THE  FLOSS. 

A  man  with  an  affectionate  disposition,  who  finds  a 
wife  to  concur  with  his  fundamental  idea  of  life,  easily 
comes  to  persuade  him-eif  that,  no  other  woman  would 
have  suited  him  so  well,  and  does  a  little  daily  snap- 
ping and  quarrelling  without  any  sense  of  alienation. 


The  pride  and  obstinacy  of  millers  (like  Mr.  Tulliver), 
and  other  insignificant  people,  whom  you  pass  un- 
noticinu'ly  on  the  road  every  day.  have  their  tragedy 
too;  but  it  is  of  that  unwept,  hidden  sort,  that  goes  oil 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  leaves  no  record  — 
such  tragedy,  perhaps,  as  lies  in  the  conflicts  of  young 
souls,  hungry  for  joy,  under  a  lot  made  Middeu'y  hard 
to  them,  under  the  dreariness  of  a  home  where  Hie 
morning  brings  no  promise  with  it.  and  where  the  nn- 
expectant  discontent  of  worn  and  disappointed  parents 
weighs  on  the  children  like  a  damp,  thick  air,  in  which 
all  the  functions  of  life  are  depressed;  or  such  tragedy 
as  lies  in  the  slow  or  sudden  death  that  follows  on  a 
bruised  pasMon,  though  it  may  be  a  death  that  finds 
only  a  pari-h  Amend.  There  are  certain  animals  to 
which  tenacity  of  POM:  ion  is  a  law  of  life  —  they  can 
never  flourish  again.  af;er  a  .-in^lc  wrench  :  and  there 
are  certain  human  beings  to  \\hoin  predominance  is  a, 
law  of  life  — they  can  only  su-fain  humiliation  >o  long 
as  they  can  n  fuse  to  believe  in  it,  and.  in  their  own 
conception,  predominate  .still. 


THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.         103 

that  will  mix,  else  they  inevitably  fall  asunder  when 
the  heat  dies  out. 


0  the  sweet  rest  of  that  embrace  to  the  heart-stricken 
Maggie  !  More  helpful  than  all  wisdom  is  one  draught 
of  simple  human  pity  that  will  not  forsake  us. 


The  small  old-fashioned  book  (^Thomas  a  Kr-mpis'), 
for  which  you  need  only  pay  sixpence  at  a  book-stall, 
works  miracles  to  this  day,  turning  bitter  waters  into 
sweetness :  while  expensive  sermons  and  treatises, 
newly  issued,  leave  all  tilings  as  they  were  before.  It 
was  written  down  by  a  hand  that  waited  for  the  heart's 
prompting;  it  is  the  chronicle  of  a  solitary,  hidden 
anguish,  struggle,  trust  and  triumph  —  not  written  on 
velvet,  cushions  to  teach  endurance  to  those  who  are 
treading  with  bleeding  feet  on  the  stones.  And  so  it 
remains  to  all  lime  a  lasting  record  of  human  needs 
and  human  consolations  :  the  voice  of  a  brother  who, 
ages  ago,  felt  and  suffered  and  renounced  —  in  the 
cloister,  perhaps,  with  serge  gown  and  tonsured  head, 
with  much  chanting  and  long  fasts,  and  with  a  fashion 
of  speech  different  from  ours  —  but  under  the  same 
silent  far-off  heavens,  and  with  the  same  passionate 
desires,  the  same  strivings,  the  same  failures,  the  same 
weariness. 


The  suffering,  whether  of  martyr  or  victim,  which 
belongs  to  every  historical  advance  of  mankind,  is  rep- 
resented in  every  town,  and  by  hundreds  of  obscure 
hearths  ;  and  we  need  not  shrink  from  this  comparison 


104  THE  MILL    OK  THE  FLOSS. 

of  small  Ihinirs  with  L.Teaf  :  for  does  not science  tell 
us  tliat  its  hiL:hc--t  striving  is  auer  the  ascertainment 
of  a  unit  y  which  si  in  II  hi  MI!  t  he  sin::  lies;  things  with  the 
Creates', '{  In  natural  sc'r •!]<•".  I  have  understood,  tlr-rc 
is  no'ln'mc  petty  to  the  mind  that  lias  a  laruv  vision  of 
relat ions,  ami  to  which  every  simple  object  su^ircsis  a 
vast  sum  of  com'ki  ms.  It  is  surely  the.  same  with  the 
ob.servation  of  luiinan  life. 


There  is  so;nctliinir  su^-tainiim'  in  (lie  very  agitation 
that  accoinjiaiiics  tin;  first  shocks  of  trouble,  just  as  au 
acute  pain  is  often  a  stinnilii-.  and  produces  an  excite- 
ment which  is  transient  sMvniT.h.  It  is  in  ihe  slow, 
changed  life  that  follows  —  in  tin.1  time  wln-n  sorrow 
lias  become  stale,  and  has  no  longer  an  emotive  inten- 
sity that  counteracts  its  pain  —  i:i  the  time  when  day 
follows  day  in  dull  unexpcetani  sameness,  and  trial  is 
a  dreary  routine:  —  k  is  then  th::;  despair  threaten-- ; 
it  is  then  that  the  peremptory  hunn'cr  of  the  soul  is 
felt,  and  eye  :u:d  ear  are  strained  af.er  some  unlearneil 
secret  of  our  existence,  which  shall  yive  to  endurance 
the  nature  of  satisfaction. 


This  inalienable  habit  of  saviuir.  as  an  end  in  iSclf, 
l)elonL.red  to  Ihe  industrious  men  of  business  oi'  a  for- 
mer u'enerai  ion.  \\  ho  made  ilu  ir  t'or'une^  ^lo\\iy.  al- 
most as  the  t rackimr  of  t he  fox  belongs  to  the  h:irri  r 
—  it  con^iituteil  th"i:i  a  "race."  uhich  is  i:-:iri;.  lo-t 
in  these  days  of  rapid  m>  >i,ey-i:'"; :  in:.r.  v. '.'  n  !..\'!-'.,:,e-  - 
comes  clo^e  on  tli-  back  of  want.  In  o!d-:'a  hioned 
1  imcs,  an  ••  independence  "  was  hardly  >  '•  er  made  wi  h- 


THE  JfTLL    OX  THE  FLOSS.  105 

out  a  litle  miserliness  as  a  condition,  and  yon  would 
have  found  that  quality  in  every  provincial  district, 
combined  with  characters  as  various  as  the  fruits  from 
which  we  can  extract  acid. 


Surely  the  only  courtship  unshaken  by  doubts  and 
fears  must  be  that  in  which  the  lovers  can  sing 
together.  The  sense  of  mutual  fitness  that  springs 
from  the  two  deep  notes  fulfilling  expectation  just  at 
the  right  moment  between  the  notes  of  the  silveiy 
soprano,  from  the  perfect  accord  of  descending  thirds 
and  fifths,  from  the  preconcerted  loving  chase  of  a 
fugue,  is  likely  enough  to  supersede  any  immediate 
demand  for  less  impassioned  forms  of  agreement. 
The  contralto  will  not  care  to  catechise  the  bass;  the 
lenorwill  foresee  no  embarrassing  dearth  of  remark  in 
evenings  spent  with  the  lovely  soprano. 


Maggie  and  Stephen  were  in  that  stage  of  courtship 
which  makes  the  most  exquisite  moment  of  youth,  the 
freshest  blossom-time  of  passion  —  when  each  is  sure 
of  the  other's  love,  but  no  formal  declaration  lias  been 
made,  and  all  its  mutual  divination,  exalting  the  most 
trivial  word,  the  lightest  gesture,  into  thrills  delicate 
and  delicious  as  wafted  jasmine  scent.  The  explicit- 
ness  of  an  engagement  wears  off  this  finest  edge  of 
susceptibility;  it  is  jasmine  gathered  and  presented  i:i 
a  large  bouquet. 


THE  .VI  f. L   O.\   Til!-:  FLOSS. 


adjusted  her  waist  and  patted  her  curls  with  a  pre- 
occupied air  win  n  she  inquired  after  your  welfare. 
These  things,  doubtless,  represent  a  great  social 
power,  but  it  is  not  the  power  of  love. 


It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  a  new  ministry  just  come 
into  ollice  are  not  the  only  fellow-men  who  enjoy  a 
period  of  high  appreciation  and  full-blown  eulogy:  in 
many  respectable  families  throughout  this  realm,  rel- 
atives beconiinir  creditable  meet  with  a  similar  cordial- 
ity oi'  recognition,  which,  in  its  line  freedom  from  the 
coercion  of  any  antecedents,  sugnv-:ts  the  hopeful  pos- 
sibility that  we  may  some  day  without  any  notice  find 
ourselves  in  full  millennium,  with  cockatrices  who 
have  ceased  to  bite,  and  wolves  that  no  longer  show 
their  teeth  with  any  but  the  blandest  intentions. 


It  is  always  chilling  in  friendly  intercourse,  to  say 
you  have  no  opinion  to  give.  And  if  you  deliver  an 
opinion  at  all.  it  is  mere  stupidity  not  to  do  it  with  an 
air  of  conviction  and  well-founded  knowledge.  You 
make  it  your  own  in  uttering  it.  and  naturally  get  fond 
of  it. 


Ugly  and  deformed  people  have  izreat  need  of  un- 
usual virtue^,  because  Iliey  are  likely  to  h"  e\:  ivnr'ly 
uncomfortable  wit hout  them:  but  the  theory  that  un- 
usual virtue-;  >pri!lLT  by  a  direct  eoll-equenee  nil!  of 
personal  di  -ad  vantage-:,  as  animal  >  get  i  if;  •!•,. -r  \vool  in 
severe  climate-;,  i --  perhap<  a  little  overstrain'  d.  The 
temptations  of  beauty  are  mudi  dwelt  upon,  but  I 


THE  MILL    OX  THE  FLOSS.  107 

fancy  they  only  bear  the  same  relation  to  those  of 
ugliness,  as  the  temptation  to  excess  at  a  feast,  where 
the  delights  arc  varied  for  eye  and  ear  as  well  as 
palate,  bears  to  the  temptations  that  assail  the  des 
peration  of  hunger.  Does  not  the  Hunger  Tower 
stand  as  the  type  of  the  utmost  trial  to  what  is  human 
in  us? 


I  think  my  head's  all  alive  inside  like  an  old  cheese, 
for  I'm  so  full  o'  plans,  one  knocks  another  over.  If 
I  hadn't  Mumps  to  talk  to,  I  should  get  top-heavy  an' 
tumble  in  a  lit.  I  suppose  it's  because  I  niver  went 
to  school  much.  That's  what  I  jaw  my  old  mother 
for.  [  says,  "  Von  should  ha'  sent  me  to  school  a  bit 
more,"  I  says  — ':  an' then  I  could  ha'  read  i' the  books 
like  fun,  an'  kep'  my  head  cool  an'  empty."1 


1  think  the  more  on 't  when  Mr.  Tom  says  a  thing, 
because  his  tongue  doesn't  overshoot  him  as  mine 
doc's.  Lors!  I'm  no  better  nor  a  tilted  bottle,  I  aren't 
—  I  can't  stop  mysen  when  once  I  begin.1 


Dr.  Ken n  was  at  me  to  know  wlrit  T  did  of  a  Sun- 
day, as  I  didn't  come  to  church.  But  I  told  him  I  was 
npo'  (he:  travel  three  parts  o' the  Sundays — an'  then 
I'm  so  used  to  behf  on  my  legs,  I  can't  sit  so  long  on 
end — "an'  lors.  sir,"  says  I,  "a  packman  can  do  \vi'  a 
small  'lowance  o'  church:  it  tastes  strong,"  says  I; 
"  there's  no  call  to  lav  it  on  thick."1 


Lors!    it's   a   thousand   pities   such   a   lady   as   you 


108  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

shouldn't  deal  with  a  packman,  i'steacl  o'  goin'  into 
these  new-fangled  shops,  where  there's  half-a-dozen 
fine  gents  wi'  their  chins  propped  up  w'f  a  still'  stock, 
a-looking  like  bottles  wi'  ornamental  stoppers,  an'  all 
got  to  get  their  dinner  out  of  a  bit  o'  calico  :  it  stan's 
to  reason  you  must  pay  three  times  the  price  you  pay 
a  packman,  as  is  the  nat'ral  way  o'  gettin'  goods  —  an' 
pays  no  rent,  an'  isn't  forced  to  throttle  himself  till 
the  lies  arc  squeezed  out  on  him,  whether  lie  will  or 
no.  But  lors  !  mum,  you  know  what  it  is  better  nor  I 
do  —  you  can  see  through  them  shopmen,  I'll  be 
bound.1 


Sec  here,  now,  here's  a  thing  to  make  a  lass's  mouth 
•water,  an'  on'y  two  shillin'  —  an'  why?  Why,  'cause 
there's  a  bit  of  a  moth-hole  i'  this  plain  end.  Lors,  I 
think  the  moths  an'  the  mildew  was  sent  by  Prov- 
idence o'  purpose  to  cheapen  the  goods  a  bit  for  the 
good-lookin'  women  as  han't  got  much  money.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  moths,  now,  every  hankicher  on 
'em  'ud  ha'  gone  to  the  rich  handsome  ladies,  like'  you, 
mum,  at  live  shillin'  apiece  —  not  a  farthin'  less ;  but 
what  does  the  moth  do?  Why,  it  nibbles  off  three 
shillin'  o'  the  price  i'  no  time,  an'  then  a  packman  like 
me  can  carry 't  to  the  poor  lasses  as  live  under  tin: 
dark  thack.  to  make  a  bit  of  a  blaze  for 'em.  Lor--, 
it's  as  good  as  a  lire,  to  look  at  such  a  Iiankieli/r.1 


Mumps  doesn't  mind  a  bit.  o'  cheaiinir.  when  it's 
them  skinllint  women,  as  hagirle  an'  h;mule,  an'  'ud 
like  to  irct  their  ilauucl  for  uolliinir.  an'  'ud  nivcr  ask 


TUE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  109 

theirselves  ho\v  I  got  my  dinner  out  on 't.  I  niver 
cheat  anybody  as  doesn't  want  to  cheat  me,  Miss  — 
lors,  I'm  a  honest  chap,  I  am ;  only  I  must  hev  a  bit 
o'  sport,  an'  now  I  don't  go  wi'  the  ferrets,  I 'n  got  110 
varmint  to  come  over  but  them  haggling  women.1 


Oh,  it  is  difficult  —  life  is  very  difficult!  It  seems 
right  to  me  sometimes  that  Ave  should  follow  our 
strongest  feeling;  —  but  then,  such  feelings  con- 
tinually come  across  the  ties  that  all  our  former  life 
has  made  for  us  —  the  ties  that  have  made  others 
dependent  on  us  —  and  would  cut  them  in  two.  If 
life  were  quite  easy  and  simple,  as  it  might  have  been 
in  paradise,  and  we  could  always  see  that  one  being 
first  towards  whom  ....  I  mean,  if  life  did  not 
make  duties  for  us  before  love  comes,  love  would  be  a 
sign  that  two  people  o,ught  lo  belong  to  each  other. 
But  I  s-je  —  I  feel  it  is  not  so  now:  there  are  tilings 
•we  must  renounce  in  life;  some  of  us  must  resign 
love.  Many  things  are  difficult  and  dark  to  me; 
but  I  sec  one  thing  quite  clearly  —  that  I  must  not, 
cannot  seek  my  own  happiness  by  sacrificing  others. 
Love  is  natural ;  but  surely  pity  and  faithfulness  and 
memory  are  natural  too.  And  they  would  live  in  me 
still,  and  punish  me  if  I  did  not  obey  them.2 


I  couldn't  live  in  peace  if  I  put  the   shadow  of  a 
wilful  sin  between  myself  and  God.2 


"i  ou  feel,  as  I  do,  that  the  real  tie  lies  in  the  feelings 
and  expectations  we  have  raised  in  other  minds.     Elstf 


110  THE  MILL   ON  Till-:  FLOSS. 

all  pledges  mlirht  bo  broken,  when  there  was  no  out- 
ward penalty.  There  would  be  no  such  tiring  u.s  faith- 
fulness.'-2 


Faithfulness  and  constancy  mean  something  else 
besides  doing  what  is  easiest  and  pleasantest  to  our- 
selves. They  mean  renouncing  whatever  is  opposed 
to  the  reliance  others  have  in  us  —  whatever  would 
cause  misery  to  those  whom  the  course  of  our  lives 
has  made  dependent  on  us.2 


If  the  past  is  not  to  bind  us,  where  can  duty  lie? 
~Ure  should  have  no  law  but  the  inclination  of  the 
moment.2 


I  think  I  should  have  no  other  mortal  wants,  if  I 
could  always  have  plenty  of  music.  It  seems  to 
infuse  strength  into  my  limbs,  and  ideas  into  my 
brain.  Life  seems  to  iro  on  Avithout  effort,  when  I  am 
filled  with  music.  At  other  times  one  is  conscious  of 
carrying  a  weight.2 


If  we  use  common  words  on  a  Lrreat  occasion,  they 
are  the  more  striking,  because  they  are  Celt  at  once  to 
have  a  particular  meanuiir.  like  old  banners,  or  every- 
day clothes,  liuiiLC  up  in  a  sacred  place. - 


It  ulwaj*s  seemed  to  me  a  sort  of  de\ \-r  stupidity 


THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.         Ill 

only  to  have  ouc  sort  of  talent  —  almost  like  a  carrier- 
pigeon.2 


It  is  with  me  as  I  used  to  think  it  would  he  w  ith  the 
poor  uneasy  white  bear  I  saw  at  the  show.  I  thought 
he  must  have  got  so  stupid  with  the  habit  of  turning 
backwards  and  forwards  in  that  narrow  space,  that  he 
would  keep  doing  it  if  they  set  him  free.  One  gets  a 
bad  habit  of  being  unhappy.2 


You  have  no  pity :  you  have  no  sense  of  your  own 
imperfection  and  your  own  sins.  It  is  a  sin  to  be 
hard:  it  is  not  titling  for  a  mortal  —  for  a  Christian. 
You  are  nothing  but  a  Pharisee.  You  thank  Cod  lor 
nothing  but  your  own  virtues  —  you  think  they  arc 
great  enough  to  win  you  everything  else.  You  have 
not  even  a  vision  of  feelings  by  the  side  of  which  your 
shining  virtues  are  mere  darknos  !5 


We  can't  choose  happiness  either  for  ourselves  or 
for  another:  we  can't  tell  where  that  will  lie.  We  can 
only  choose  whether  we  will  indulge  ourselves  in  the 
present  moment,  or  whether  we  will  renounce  that, 
for  the  sake  of  obeying  the  divine  voice  within  us  — 
for  the  sake  of  being  (rue  to  all  the  motives  that  sanc- 
tify our  lives.  I  know  this  belief  is  hard  :  it  has  slip- 
ped away  from  me  again  and  again;  but  I  have  iVlt 
that  if  I  let  it  go  forever,  I  should  have  \i )  light 
through  the  darkness  of  this  life.'3 


Our  life  is  determined  for  us  —  and  it  makes   the 


112  THE  MILL   02f  THE  FLOSS. 

mind  very  free  when  we  give  up  wishing,  and  only 
think  of  bearing  what  is  laid  upon  us,  and  doing  what 
is  given  us  to  do.2 


I'll  tell  you  how  I  trot  on.  It  wasn't  by  getting 
astride  a  stick,  and  thinking  it  would  turn  into  a  horse, 
if  I  sat  on  it  long  enough.  I  kept  my  eyes  and  ears 
open,  sir,  and  I  wasn't  too  fond  of  my  own  back,  and 
I  made  my  master's  interest  my  own.3 


If  I  got  places,  sir,  it  was  because  I  made  myself  fit 
for  'em.  If  you  want  to  slip  into  a  round  hole,  you 
must  make  a  ball  of  yourself —  that's  where  it  is.3 


You  youngsters  nowadays  think  you're  to  begin 
with  living  well  and  working  easy:  you've  no  notion 
of  running  afoot  before  YOU  get  on  horseback.3 


You  must  remember  it  isn't  only  laying  hold  of  a 
rope  —  you  must  go  on  pulling.  It's  the  mistake  you 
Luis  make  that  have  got  nothing  either  in  your  brains 
or  your  pocket,  to  think  you've  got  a  better  start  in 
the  world  if  you  stick  yourselves  in  a  place  where  you 
can  keep  your  coats  clean,  and  have  the  shop-wenches 
take,  you  for  tine  gentlemen.  That  wasn't  the  way  / 
started,  young  man  :  when  I  was  sixteen,  my  jacket 
smelt  of  tar,  and  I  wasn't  afraid  of  handling  cheeses. 
That's  the  reason  I  can  wear  good  broadcloth  now, 
and  have  my  legs  under  the  same  table  with  the  heads 
of  the  best  linns  in  St.  Ogg's.3 


THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  113 

I  want  Tom  to  know  figures,  and  write  like  print, 
and  see  into  tilings  quick,  and  know  what  folks  mean, 
and  how  to  wrap  things  up  in  words  as  aren't  action- 
able. It's  an  uncommon  line  tiling,  that  is,  when  you 
can  let  a  man  know  what  you  think  of  him  without 
paying  for  it.4 


It's  a  pity  but  what  Maggie  'd  been  the  lad  —  she'd 
ha'  been  a  match  for  the  lawyers,  she  would.  It's  the 
wonderf'nl'st  thing  as  I  picked  the  mother  because  she 
wasn't  o'er  'cute  —  bcin'  a  good-looking  woman  too, 
an'  come  of  a  rare  family  for  managing;  but  I  picked 
her  from  her  sisters  o'  purpose,  'cause  she  was  a  bit 
weak,  like;  for  I  wasn't  agoin'  to  be  told  the  rights  o' 
things  by  my  own  fireside.  But  yon  sec  when  a  man's 
got  brains  himself,  there's  no  knowing  where  they'll 
run  to ;  an'  a  pleasant  sort  o'  soft  woman  may  go  on 
breeding  you  stupid  lad.s  and  'cute  wenches,  till  it's 
like  as  if  the  world  was  turned  topsy-turvy.  It's  an 
uncommon  puzzliu'  thing.4 


It  is  mere  cowardice  to  seek  safety  in  negations. 
No  character  becomes  strong  in  that  way.6 


A  feeling  of  revenge  is  not  worth  much,  that  you 
should  care  to  keep  it.5 


I  don't  think  any  of  the  strongest  effects  our  natures 
are  susceptible  of  can  ever  be  explained.  We  can 
neither  detect  the  process  by  which  they  are  arrived 
at,  nor  the  mode  in  which,  they  act  on  us.  The  greut- 

8 


114  THE  Jf/LL   OX  THE  FLOSS. 

cst  of  painters  only  once  painted  a  mysteriously  divine 
child:  he  couldn't,  have  told  how  he  did  it,  and  we 
can't  tell  why  we  feel  it  to  be  divine.  I  think  there 
are  stores  laid  up  in  our  human  nature  that  our  under- 
standings can  make  no  complete  inventory  of.  Certain 
strains  of  music  affect  me  so  strangely  —  I  can  never 
hear  them  without  their  changing  my  whole  attitude 
of  mind  for  a  time,  and  if  the  etl'ect  would  last,  I  might 
be  capable  of  heroisms.3 


Love   gives  insight,   and   insight  often  gives  fore- 
boding.5 


I  think  of  too  many  things  —  sow  all  sorts  of  seeds, 
and  get  no  great  harvest  from  any  one  of  them.  I'm 
cursed  with  susceptibility  in  every  direction,  and  effec- 
tive faculty  in  none.  I  care  for  painting  and  music; 
I  care  for  classic  literature,  and  medheval  literature, 
and  modern  literature;  I  ilutter  all  ways,  ami  lly  in 
none.5 


It  seems  to  me  we  can  never  give  up  longing  and 
wishing  while  we  are  thoroughly  alive.  There  are  cer- 
tain things  we  feel  to  lie  beautiful  and  good,  and  we 
mutt,  hunger  after  them.  How  can  we  ever  be  satis- 
lied  without  them  until  our  feelings  are  deadened?  I 
delight,  in  fine  pictures — I  long  to  be  able  to  paint 
such.  I  strive  and  Mrivc,  and  can't  produce  what  I 
want.  That  is  pain  io  me.  and  always  v:ill  be  pain, 
until  my  faculties  lose  their  keenness,  like  aged  eyes." 


THE  JffLL   ON  THE  FLOSS.  115 

Perhaps  I  am  wrong;  perhaps  I  feel  about  you  as 
the  artist  does  about  the  scene  over  which  his  soul  has 
brooded  with  love:  lie  would  tremble  to  see  it  con- 
fided toother  hands;  lie  would  never  believe  that  it 
could  bear  for  another  all  the  meaning  and  the  beauty 
it  bears  for  him.6 


You  want  to  find  out  a  mode  of  renunciation  that 
will  be  an  escape  from  pain.  I  tell  you  again,  there  is 
no  such  escape  possible  except  by  perverting  or  muti- 
lating one's  nature.5 


I  can't  think  what  witchery  it  is  iu  you,  Maggie,  that 
makes  you  look  best  in  shabby  clothes  ;  though  you 
really  must  have  a  new  dress  now.  Hut  do  you  know, 
last  night  I  was  trying  to  fancy  you  in  a  handsome 
fashionable  dress,  and  do  what  I  would,  that  old  limp 
merino  would  come  back  as  the  only  right  thing  for 
you.  I  wonder  if  Marie  Antoinette  looked  all  the 
grander  when  her  gown  was  darned  at  the  elbows. 
Js'ow,  if  /were  to  put  anything  shabby  on,  I  should  be 
quite  unnotieeable  —  I  should  be  a  mere  rag.6 


I  suppose  all  phrases  of  mere  compliment  have  their 
turn  to  be  true.  A  man  is  occasionally  grateful  when 
he  says  "thank  you."  It's  rather  hard  upon  him  that 
lie  must  use  the  same  words  with  which  all  the  world 
declines  a  disagreeable  invitation  —  don't  you  think  so, 
Miss  Tulliver?7 


11G  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

Well,  it  will  not  go  on  much  longer,  for  the  bazaar 
is  to  take  place  on  Monday  week.0' 

Thank  heaven!  Kenn  himself  said  Ihe  other  day, 
that  lie  didn't  like  this  plan  of  making  vanity  to  do  the 
work  of  charity;  but  just  as  the  British  public  is  not 
reasonable  enough  to  bear  direct  taxation,  so  St.  Oiric's 
has  not  <;ot  force  of  motive  enough  to  build  and  endow 
schools  without  calling  in  the  force  of  folly.7 


END  OF   "THE   MILL   OX  THE  FLOSS." 


SILAS    MARKER 

(117) 


SILAS    MAENER. 


Ix  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  took 
men  by  the  hand  and  led  them  away  from  the  city  of 
destruction.  We  see  no  white-winged  angels  now. 
But  yet  men  are  led  away  from  threatening  destruc- 
tion :  a  hand  is  put  into  theirs,  which  leads  them  forth 
gently  towards  a  calm  and  bright  land,  so  that  they 
look  no  more  backward ;  and  the  hand  may  be  a  little 
child's. 


The  gods  of  the  hearth  exist  for  us  still ;  and  let  all 
new  faith  be  tolerant  of  that  fetishism,  lest  it  bruise 
its  own  roots. 


That  famous  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when  he 
forgot  duty  and  followed  desire  — I  wonder  if  it  pricked 
very  hard  when  he  set  out  on  the  chase,  or  whether  it 
pricked  but  lightly  then,  and  only  pierced  to  the  quick 
when  the  chase  had  long  been  ended,  and  hope,  fold- 
ing her  wings,  looked  backward  and  became  regret? 


If  there  is  an  angel  who  records  the  sorrows  of  men 
as  well  as  their  sins,  he  knows  how  many  and  deep 
are  the  sorrows  that  spring  from  false  ideas  for  which 
no  man  is  culpable. 


120  SILAS  MARXER. 

Our  consciousness  rarely  registers  the  bcirinnins:  of 
a  jrrowth  within  us  any  more  than  without  us:  thero 
Lave  been  many  circulations  of  the  sap  before  we  de- 
tect the  smallest  siim  of  the  bud. 


Favorable  Chance,  I  fancy,  is  the  irod  of  all  men  who 
follow  their  own  devices  instead  of  obeying  a  law  they 
believe  in.  Let  even  a  polished  man  of  these  clays  iret 
into  a  position  he  is  ashamed  to  avow,  and  his  mind 
will  be  bent  on  all  the  possible  issues  that  may  deliver 
him  from  the  calculable  results  of  that  position.  Let 
him  live  outside  his  income,  or  shirk  the  resolute  hon- 
est work  that  brings  waires.  and  lie  will  presently  find 
himself  dreaming  of  a  possible  benefactor,  a  possible 
simpleton  who  may  be  cajoled  into  using  his  interest, 
a  possible  state  of  mind  in  some  possible  person  not 
yet  forthcoming.  Let  him  neglect  the  responsibilities 
of  his  oflicc,  and  lie  will  inevitably  anchor  himself  on 
the  chance,  that  the  thing  left  undone  may  turn  out 
not  to  be  of  the  supposed  importance.  Let  him  betray 
his  friend's  confidence,  and  he  will  adore  that  same 
cunning  complexity  called  Chance,  which  gives  him 
the  hope  that  his  friend  will  never  know.  Let  him 
forsake  a  decent  craft  that  lie  may  pursue  tin1  iren;il- 
iti'.-s  of  a  profession  to  which  nature  never  called  him, 
and  his  religion  will  infallibly  be  the  wor.-hip  of  Messed 
Chance,  which  he  will  believe  in  as  the  niiLrhtv  en  ai<>r 
of  success.  The  evil  principle  deprecated  in  that  re- 
ligion, is  the  orderly  sequence  by  which  the  seed  brings 
forth  a  crop  after  its  kind. 


SILAS  MAR  NEB.  121 

To  the  peasants  of  old  times,  the  world  outside  their 
own  direct  experience  was  a  region  of  vagueness  and 
mystery:  to  their  untravellcd  thought  a  state  of  wan- 
dering was  a  conception  as  dim  as  the  winter  life  of 
the  swallows  that  came  back  with  the  spring :  and 
even  a  settler,  if  he  came  from  distant  parts,  hardly 
ever  ceased  to  be  viewed  with  a  remnant  of  distrust, 
which  would  have  prevented  any  surprise  if  a  long 
course  of  inoli'eusive  conduct  on  his  part  had  ended  in 
the  commission  of  a  crime;  especially  if  he  had  any 
reputation  for  knowledge,  or  showed  any  skill  in  handi- 
craft. All  cleverness,  whether  in  the  rapid  use  of  that 
diflicult  instrument  the  tongue,  or  in  some  other  art 
unfamiliar  to  villagers,  was  in  itself  suspicious  :  honest 
folks,  born  and  bred  in  a  visible  manner,  were  mostly 
not  over\vise  or  clever — at  least,  not  beyond  such  a 
matter  as  knowing  the  signs  of  the  \veuther;  and  the 
process  by  which  rapidity  and  dexterity  of  any  kind 
were  acquired  was  so  wholly  hidden,  that  they  partook 
of  the  nature  of  conjuring. 


The  yoke  a  man  creates  for  himself  by  wrong-doing 
will  breed  hate  in  the  kindliest  nature. 


The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind  that 
keeps  itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under  as  a 
great,  artist  under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye  detects 
but.  his  own,  an.' worn  as  lightly  as  mere  trimmings 
when  once  the  actions  have  become  a  lie. 


122  SILAS  MARXER. 

habit  than  from  conviction,  and  for  this  reason  it  often 
subsists  after  such  a  change  in  the  conditions  as  might 
have  been  expected  to  suggest  alarm.  The  lapse  of 
time  during  Avhich  a  given  event  has  not  happened,  is, 
in  this  logic  of  habit,  constantly  alleged  as  a  reason 
why  the  event  should  never  happen,  even  when  the 
lapse  of  time  is  precisely  the  added  condition  which 
makes  the  event  imminent.  A  man  will  tell  you  that 
he  lias  worked  in  a  mine  for  forty  years  unhurt  by  an 
accident  as  a  reason  why  he  should  apprehend  no 
clanger,  though  the  roof  is  beginning  to  sink;  and  it  is 
often  observable,  that  the  older  a  man  gets,  the  more 
difficult  it  is  to  him  to  retain  a  believing  conception 
of  his  own  death. 


Instead  of  trying  to  still  his  fears,  Godfrey  encour- 
aged them,  wi;h  that  superstitious  impression  which 
clings  to  us  all,  that  if  we  expect  evil  very  strongly  it 
is  the  less  likelv  to  come. 


Let  even  an  affectionate  Goliath  get  himself  tied  to 
a  small  tender  thinir.  dreading  to  hurt  it  by  pulling, 
and  dreading  --till  more  to  snap  the  cord,  and  which  of 
the  two,  pray,  will  be  master? 


SILAS  MARKER.  123 

so  much  on  his  mind,"  is  the  belief  by  which  a  wife 
often  supports  a  cheerful  face  under  rough  answers 
and  unfeeling  words. 


Excessive  rumination  and  self-questioning  is  perhaps 
a  morbid  habit  inevitable  to  a  mind  of  much  moral 
sensibility  when  shut  out  from  its  due  share  of  out- 
ward activity,  and  of  practical  claims  on  its  affections 
—  inevitable  to  a  noble-hearted,  childless  woman,  when 
her  lot  is  narrow.  "I  can  do  so  little  —  have  I  done 
it  all  well?"  is  the  perpetually  recurring  thought;  and 
there  arc  no  voices  calling  her  away  from  that  solil- 
oquy, no  peremptory  demands  to  divert  energy  from 
vain  regret  or  superfluous  scruple. 


I  suppose  it  is  the  way  with  all  men  and  women  Avho 
reach  middle  age  without  the  clear  perception  that  life 
never  can  be  thoroughly  joyous  :  under  the  vague  dul- 
ness  of  (he  gray  hours,  dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite 
object,  and  finds  it  in  the  privation  of  an  untried  good. 
Dissatisfaction,  seated  musingly  on  a  childless  hearth, 
thinks  with  envy  of  the  father  whose  return  is  greeted 
by  young  voices  —  seated  at  the  meal  where  the  little 
heads  ri-e  one  above  another  like  nursery  plants,  it 
sees  a  black  care  hovering  behind  every  one  of  them, 
and  i 'links  the  impulses  by  which  men  abandon  free- 
dom, and  seek  for  ties,  are  surely  no'ihiug  but  a  brief 
madness. 


That  quiet  mutual  ga/.e  of  a  trusting  husband  and 
wife  is  like  the  first  moment  of  rest  or  refuge  from  a 


124  SILAS 

great  weariness  or  a  great  danger  —  not  to  be  inter- 
fered with  by  speech  or  action  which  would  distract 
the  sensations  from  the  fresh  enjoyment  of  repose. 


Memory,  when  duly  impregnated  with  ascertained 
facts,  is  sometimes  surprisingly  fertile. 


Perfect  love  has  a  breath  of  poetry  which  can  exalt 
the  relations  of  the  least-instructed  human  beings. 


The  subtle  and  varied  pains  springing  from  the 
higher  sensibility  that  accompanies  higher  culture,  are 
perhaps  less  pitiable  than  that  dreary  absence  of  im- 
personal enjoyment  and  cousol  itiou  which  leaves  ruder 
minds  to  the  perpetual  urgent  companionship  of  their 
own  griefs  and  discontents. 


Often  the  soul  is  ripened  into  fuller  goodness  while 
age  has  spread  an  ugly  tilm,  so  that  mere  glances  can 
never  divine  the  preciousness  of  the  fruit. 


A  plain  man,  speaking  under  some  embarrassment, 
necessarily  blunders  on  words  that  are  coarser  than 
his  intentions,  and  that  arc  likely  to  fall  gratingly  on 
susceptible  feelings. 


I  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  alile  to 
comfort  our  neighbors  with  our  \vonl  >  i~.  that  our 
good-will  gets  adulterated,  in  spite  of  our-rlvc<.  before 
it  can  pass  our  lips.  We  can  send  black  puddings  and 
pettitoes  without  giving  them  a  flavor  of  our  own 


SILAS  MARNER.  125 

egoism ;  but  language  is  a  stream  that  is  almost  sure 
to  smack  of  a  mingled  soil. 


Even  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various  by 
learning,  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  keep  a  fast  hold  on 
their  habitual  views  of  life,  on  their  faith  in  the  Invis- 
ible— nay,  on  the  sense  that  their  past  joys  and  sorrows 
arc  a  real  experience,  when  they  are  suddenly  trans- 
ported to  a  new  land,  where  the  beings  around  them 
know  nothing  of  their  history,  and  share  none  of  their 
ideas  —  where  their  mother  earth  shows  another  lap, 
and  human  life  has  other  forms  than  those  on  which 
their  souls  have  been  nourished.  Minds  that  have 
been  unhinged  from  their  old  faith  and  love,  have  per- 
haps sought  this  Lethean  influence  of  ex  ic,  in  which 
the  past  becomes  dreamy  because  its  .symbols  have  all 
vanished,  and  the  present  too  is  dreamy  because  it  is 
linked  with  no  memories. 


Have  not  men,  shut  up  in  solitary  imprisonment, 
found  an  interest  in  marking  the  moments  by  straight 
strokes  of  a  certain  length  on  the  wall,  until  the  growth 
of  the  sum  of  straight  strokes,  arranged  in  triangles, 
has  become  a  mastering  purpose?  Do  we  not  wile 
away  moments  of  inanity  or  fatigued  waiting  by  re- 
peating some  trivial  movement  or  sound,  until  the 
repetition  has  bred  a  want,  which  is  incipient  habit? 
That  will  help  us  to  understand  how  the  love  of  accu- 
mulating money  grows  an  absorbing  passion  in  men 
whose  imaginations,  even  in  the  very  beginning  of 
their  hoard,  showed  them  no  purpose  beyond  it. 


12G 

Marner's  life  had  reduced  itself  to  the  mere  functions 
of  weaving  and  hoarding,  without  any  contemplation 
of  an  end  towards  which  the  functions  tended.  The 
same  sort  of  process  has  perhaps  been  undergone  by 
wiser  men.  when  they  have  been  cut  oil'  from  faith  and 
love  —  only,  instead  of  a  loom  and  a  heap  of  guineas, 
they  have  had  some  erudite  research,  some  ingenious 
project,  or  some  well-knit  theory. 


The  child  was  perfectly  quiet  now,  but  not  asleep  — 
only  soothed  by  sweet  porridge  and  warmth  into  that 
wide-ga/.iug  calm  which  makes  us  older  human  beings, 
Avith  our  inward  turmoil,  feel  a  certain  awe  in  the 
presence  of  a  little  child,  such  as  we  feel  before  some 
quiet  majesty  or  beauty  in  the  earth  or  sky —  before  a 
steady  Blowing  planet,  or  a  full-ilowcred  eglantine,  or 
the  bending  trees  over  a  sileut  pathway. 


The  excitement  had  not  passed  away :  it  had  only 
reached  that  stage  when  the  keenness  of  the  suscepti- 
bility makes  the  external  stimulus  intolerable  —  when 
there  is  no  sense  of  weariness,  but  rather  an  intensity 
of  inward  life,  under  which  sleep  is  an  impossibility. 
Any  one  who  has  watched  such  moments  in  other  men 
remembers  the  brightness  of  the  eyes  and  the  strange 
defmitencss  that  comes  over  coarse  features  from  that 
transient  influence.  It  is  as  if  a  new  lineiH'ss  of  ear 
for  all  spiritual  voices  had  sent  wonder-working  vibra- 
tions through  the  heavy  mortal  dame  —  as  if  ••  beauty 
born  of  murmuring  sound"  had  passed  into  the  face 
of  the  listener. 


SILAS  MAENEE.  127 

To  people  accustomed  to  reason  about  the  forms  in 
which  their  religious  feeling  has  incorporated  itself,  it 
is  diillcult  to  enter  into  that  simple,  untaught  state  of 
mind  in  which  the  form  and  the  feeling  have  never 
been  severed  by  an  act  of  reflection. 


Strange  lingering  echoes  of  the  old  demon  worship 
might  perhaps  even  now  be  caught  by  the  diligent  lis- 
tener among  the  gray-haired  peasantry;  for  the  rude 
mind  with  difiiculty  associates  the  ideas  of  power  and 
benignity.  A  shadow}'  conception  of  power  that  by 
much  persuasion  can  be  induced  to  refrain  from  in- 
flicting harm,  is  the  .shape  most  easily  taken  by  the 
sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds  of  men  who  have 
always  been  pressed  close  by  primitive  wants,  and  to 
whom  a  life  of  hard  toil  has  never  been  illuminated  by 
any  enthusiastic  religious  faith.  To  them  pain  and 
mishap  present  a  far  wider  range  of  possibilities  than 
gladness  and  enjoyment:  their  imagination  is  almost 
barren  of  the  images  that  feed  desire  and  hope,  but  is 
all  overgrown  by  recollections  that  are  a  perpetual 
pasture  to  fear.  "Is  there  anything  you  can  fancy 
that  you  would  like  to  eat?"  I  once  said  to  an  old 
laboring  man,  who  was  in  his  last  illness,  and  who 
had  refused  all  the  food  his  wife  had  oli'ered  him. 
i;Xo,"  he  answered,  "I've  never  been  used  to  nothing 
but  common  victual,  and  I  can't  eat  that."  Experi- 
ence had  bred  no  fancies  in  him  that  could  raise  the 
phantasm  of  appetite. 


Well,  Master  Marner,  it's  uiver  too  late  to  turn  over 


128  SILAS  MAR  NEE. 

a  new  loaf,  and  if  you've  niver  luul  no  church,  there's 
no  telling  tlie  good  it  'nil  do  you.  Tor  1  feel  so  set  up 
and  comfortable  as  niver  was,  when  I've  been  and 
heard  the  prayers,  and  the  singing  to  the  praise  and 
glory  o'  God,  as  Mr.  Mace}-  gives  ont  —  and  Mr. 
Crackenthorp  saying  good  words,  and  more  partic'lar 
on  Sacnunen'  Day;  and  if  a  bit  o'  trouble  comes,  I 
feel  as  I  can  put  up  wi'  it,  for  I've  looked  for  help  i' 
the  right  quarter,  and  gev  myself  up  to  Them  as  we 
must  all  give  ourselves  up  to  at  the  last:  and  if  we'n 
done  our  part,  it  isn't  to  be  believed  as  Them  as  are 
above  us  'nil  lie  worse  nor  we  are,  and  come  short  o' 
Theirn.1 


It  allays  conies  into  my  head  when  I'm  sorry  for 
folks,  and  feel  as  I  can't  do  a  power  to  help  'em,  not 
if  I  was  to  get  up  i'  the  middle  o'  the  night  —  it  comes 
into  my  head  as  Them  above  has  got  a  deal  tenderer 
heart  nor  what  I've  got  —  for  I  can't  be  anyways  better 
nor  Them  as  made  me;  and  if  anything  looks  hard  to 
me,  it's  because  there's  things  I  don't  know  on ;  and 
for  the  matter  o'  that,  there  may  be  plenty  o'  things  I 
don't  know  on,  for  it's  little  as  I  know  —  that  it  is.1 


Eh,  there's  trouble  i'  this  world,  and  there's  things 
as  we  can  niver  make  out  the  rights  on.  And  all  as 
we've  got  to  do  is  to  trusten.  Master  Marnor  —  to  do 
the  right  thing  as  fur  as  we  know,  and  to  trusten. 
For  if  us  as  knows  so  little  can  see  a  bit  o'  good  and 
rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there's  a  good  and  a  rights 


SILAS  EARNER.  129 

bigger  nor  what  we  cau  know  —  I  feel  it  i'  my  own 
inside  as  it  must  be  so.1 


It's  the  will  o'  Them  above  as  a  many  things  should 
be  dark  to  us;  but  there's  some  things  as  I've  never 
felt  i'  the  dark  about,  and  they're  mostly  what  comes 
i'  the  day's  work.  You  were  hard  done  by  that  once, 
Master  Marncr,  and  it  seems  as  you'll  never  know  the 
rights  of  it;  but  that  doesn't  hinder  there  bc.imj  a 
rights,  Master  Marner,  for  all  it's  dark  to  you  and  me.1 


If  you  can't  bring  your  mind  to  frighten  the  child 
ofl'  touching  things,  you  must  do  what  you  can  to 
keep  'em  out  of  her  way.  That's  what  I  do  wi'  the 
pups  as  the  lads  arc  allays  a-rearing.  They  will  worry 
and  gnaw  —  worry  and  gnaw  they  will,  if  it  was  one's 
Sunday  cap  as  hung  anywhere  so  as  they  could  drag 
it.  They  know  no  difference,  God  help  'em:  it's  the 
pushing  o'  the  teeth  as  sets  'em  on,  that's  what  it  is.1 


It  drives  me  past  patience,  that  way  o' the  men  — 
always  wanting  and  wauling,  and  never  easy  with 
what  they've  got:  they  can't  sit  comfortable  iu  their 
chairs  when  they've  neither  ache  nor  pain,  but  either 
tlft'y  must  stick  a  pipe  in  their  mouths,  to  make  'em 
better  than  well,  or  else  they  must  be  swallowing 
something  strong,  though  they're  forced  to  make  haste 
before  the  next  meal  comes  in.2 


O,  I  know  the  way  o'  wives ;   they  set  one  on  to 
o 


loO  SILAS  MARNER. 

abuse  their  husbands,  and  then  tlio}r  turn  round  on 
one  and  praise  'em  us  if  they  wanted  to  sell  'em.2 


There's  nothing  like  a  dairy  if  folks  want  a  bit  o' 
worrit  to  make  the  days  pass.  For  as  for  rubbing 
furniture,  when  you  can  once  sec  your  face  in  a  table 
there's  nothing  else  to  look  for;  but  there's  always 
something  fresh  with  the  dairy  :  for  even  in  the  depths 
o'  winter  there's  some  pleasure  in  conquering  the 
butter,  and  making  it  come  whether  or  no.2 


There's  nothing  kills  a  man  so  soon  as  having 
nobody  to  find  fault  with  but  himself.  It's  a  deal  the 
best  way  o'  being  master,  to  let  somebody  else  do  the 
ordering,  and  keep  the  blaming  in  your  own  hands. 
It  'ud  save  many  a  man  a  stroke',  1  believe.2 


You're  right  there,  Tookey :  there's  allays  two 
'pinions;  there's  the  'pinion  a  man  has  of  himsen,  and 
there's  the 'pinion  other  folks  have  on  him.  There 'd 
be  two  'pinions  about  a  cracked  bell,  if  the  bell  could 
hear  itself.3 


Meanin'  goes  but.  a  little  way  i'  most  things,  for  you 
may  mean  to  stick  things  together  and  your  glue  may 
be  bad,  and  then  where  are  you?3 


SILAS  MARNER.  131 

oft",  and  all  the  while  the  real  reason's  winking  at  'era 
in  the  corner,  and  they  niver  see  't.3 


Breed  is  stronger  than  pasture.4 


Things  look  dim  to  old  folks  :  they'd  need  have  some 
young  eyes  about  'em,  to  let  'em  know  the  world's  the 
same  as  it  used  to  be.4 


There's  debts  we  can't  pay  like  money  debts,  by 
paying  extra  for  the  years  that  have  slipped  by.  While 
I've  been  putting  oft"  and  putting  off,  the  trees  have 
been  growing  —  it's  too  late  now.3 


Nothing  is  so  good  as  it  seems  beforehand.8 


EXD   OF    ''SILAS   MA11NER." 


EOMOLA- 

(133) 


EOMOLA. 


TITE  great  river-courses  which  have  shaped  the  lives 
of  men  have  hardly  changed ;  and  those  other  streams, 
the  life-currents  that  ebb  and  flow  in  human  hearts, 
pulsate  to  the  same  great  needs,  the  same  great  loves 
ami  terrors.  As  our  thought  follows  close  in  the  slow 
wake  of  the  dawn,  we  are  impressed  with  the  broad 
sameness  of  the  human  lot,  which  never  alters  in  the 
main  headings  of  its  history  —  hunger  and  labor,  seed- 
time and  harvest,  love  and  death. 

Even  if,  instead  of  following  the  dim  daybreak,  our 
imagination  pauses  on  a  certain  historical  spot,  and 
awaits  the  fuller  morning,  we  may  see  a  world-famous 
city,  which  lias  hardly  changed  its  outline  since  the 
days  of  Columbus,  seeming  to  stand  as  an  almost  uu- 
violated  symbol,  amidst  the  flux  of  human  things,  to 
remind  us  that  we  still  resemble  the  men  of  the  past 
more  than  we  differ  from  them,  as  the  great  mechan- 
ical principles  on  which  those  domes  and  towers  were 
raised  must  make  a  likeness  in  human  building  that 
will  be  broader  and  deeper  than  all  possible  change. 


Our  deeds  arc  like  children  that  arc  born  to  us  ;  they 
live  and  act  apart  from  our  own  will.     Nay,  children 
(135) 


136  JiOJfOLA. 

may  be  strangled,  but  deeds  never :  they  have  an 
indestructible  life  both  in  and  out  of  our  conscious- 
ness. 

Under  every  guilty  secret  there  is  hidden  a  brood 
of  guilty  wishes,  whose  unwholesome  infecting  life  is 
cherished  by  the  darkness.  The  contaminating  effect 
of  deeds  often  lies  less  in  the  commission  than  in  the 
consequent  adjustment  of  our  desires  —  the  enlistment 
of  our  self-interest  on  the  side  of  falsity ;  as,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  purifying  influence  of  public  confes- 
sion springs  from  the  fact,  that  by  it  the  hope  in  lies 
is  forever  swept  away,  and  the  soul  recovers  the 
noble  attitude  of  simplicity. 


If  the   subtle   mixture   of  good   and  evil  prepares 

suffering  for  human  truth  and   purity,  there   is  also 

suffering  prepared  for  the   wrong-doer  by  the   same 
mingled  conditions. 


Necessity  does  the  work  of  courage. 


Tito's  mind  was  destitute  of  that  dread  which  has 
been  erroneously  decried  as  if  it  were  nothing  higher 
than  a  man's  animal  care  for  his  own  skin:  that  a\ve 
of  the  Divine  Nemesis  which  was  frit  by  religious 
pagans,  and,  though  it  took  a  more  positive  form  under 
Christianity,  is  si  ill  I'd;  by  the  mas*  of  mankind  simply 
as  a  vague  fear  at  anything  which  is  called  wrong- 
doing. Such  terror  of  the  unseen  is  so  far  above  mere 
sensual  cowardice  that  it  will  annihilate  that  coward- 


ROMOLA.  137 

ice:  it  is  tlic  initial  recognition  of  a  moral  law  re- 
straining desire,  and  checks  the  hard  bold  scrutiny  of 
imperfect  thought  into  obligations  which  can  never  be, 
proved  to  have  any  sanctity  in  the  absence  of  fueling. 
'•  It  is  good,"  sing  the  old  Eumcuidcs,  in  JEschyiu^, 
"that  i'ear  should  sit  as  the  guardian  of  the  so;:!, 
forcing  it  into  wisdom  —  goc;d  that  men  should  carry 
a  threatening  shado\v  in  their  hearts  under  the  full 
sunshine;  else,  how  should  they  learn  to  revere  the 
right:'  "  That  guardianship  may  become  needless  ;  but 
only  when  all  outward  law  has  become  needless  —  only 
when  duly  and  love  have  united  iu  one  stream  and 
made  a  common  force. 


We  are  so  made,  almost  all  of  us,  thai  the  false 
seeming  whieh  we  have  thought  of  wit  h  painful  sin-ink- 
ing when  bef.d'i  hand  in  our  solitude1  it  has  urgvd  itself 
on  us  as  a  necessity,  will  possess  our  muscles  and 
move  our  lips  as  if  nothing  but  thai  were  easy  when 
once  we  have  come  under  the  stimulus  of  expectant 
eyes  and  ears. 


It  belongs  to  every  large  nature,  when  it,  is  not 
under  the  r.nmediale  power  of  some  strong  uiniues- 
1  i'liiing  emot  ion,  to  suspect  itself,  and  doubt  t'nr'  tru'.h 
of  its  own  impressions,  conscious  of  possibilities  be- 
yond its  own  horizon. 


138  ROXOLA. 

Eveiy  strong  feeling  makes  to  itself  a  conscience  of 
its  own  —  has  its  own  piety;  just  as  much  as  the  feel- 
ing of  the  son  towards  the  mother,  which  will  some- 
times survive  amid  the  worst  fumes  of  depravation. 


While  we  are  still  in  our  youth  there  can  always 
come,  in  our  early  waking,  moments  when  mere  pas- 
sive existence  is  itself  a  Lethe,  when  the  exquisitcness 
of  subtle  indefinite  sensation  creates  a  bliss  which  is 
without  memory  and  without  desire. 


Even  to  the  man  who  presents  the  most  elastic 
resistance  to  whatever  is  unpleasant,  there  will  come 
moments  when  the  pressure  from  without  is  too  strong 
for  him,  and  he  must  feel  the  smart  and  the  bruise  in 
spite  of  himself. 


A  man's  own  safety  is  a  god  that  sometimes  makes 
very  grim  demands. 


Tito  showed  no  other  change  from  the  two  months 
and  more  that  had  passed  since  his  first  appearance 
in  the  weather-stained  tunic  and  hose,  than  that  added 
radiance  of  good  fortune,  which  is  like  the  just  per- 
ceptible perfecting  of  a  flower  after  it  has  drunk  a 
morning's  sunbeams. 


The  feelings  that  gather  fervor  from  novelty  will 
be  of  little  help  towards  making  the  world  a  home'  for 
dimmed  and  faded  human  beintrs;  and  if  there  is  any 
love  of  which  they  are  not  widowed,  it  must  be  the 


EOMOLA.  139 

love  that  is  rooted  in  memories  and  distils  perpetually 
the  sweet  balms  of  fidelity  and  forbearing  tenderness. 


The  human  soul  is  hospitable,  and  will  entertain 
conflicting  sentiments  and  contradictory  opinions  with 
much  impartiality. 


A  girl  of  eighteen  imagines  the  feelings  behind  the 
face  that  has  moved  her  with  its  S}rmpathctic  j'outh, 
as  easily  as  primitive  people  imagined  the  humors  of 
the  gods  in  fair  weather :  what  is  she  to  believe  in,  if 
not  ill  this  vision  woven  from  within? 


Xo  one  who  has  ever  known  what  it  is  to  lose  faith 
in  a  fellow-man  whom  he  has  profoundly  loved  and 
reverenced,  will  lightly  say  that  the-  shock  can  leave 
the  faith  in  the  Invisible  Goodness  unshaken.  "With 
the  sinking  of  high  human  trust,  the  dignity  of  life 
sinks  too;  we  cease  to  believe  in  our  own  better  self, 
since  that  also  is  part  of  the  common  nature  which 
is  degraded  in  our  thought;  and  all  the  finer  impulses 
of  the  soul  are  dulled. 


All  who  remember  their  childhood  remember  the 
strange  vague  sense,  when  some  new  experience  came, 
that  everything  else  was  going  to  be  changed,  and  that 
there  would  be  no  lapse  into  the  old  monotony. 


Our  relations  with  our  fellow-men  are  most  often 
determined  by  coincident  currents;  the  inexcusable 
word  or  deed  seldom  comes  until  after  all'ectiou  or 


140  no.vof.A. 

reverence  lias  been  already  enfeebled  by  the  strain  of 
repeated  excuses. 


There  is  no  compensation  for  the  woman  who  feels 
that  the  chief  relation  of  her  life  has  been  no  more 
than  a  mistake.  She  lias  lost,  her  crown.  The  deepest 
secret  of  human  blessedness  has  half  whispered  itself 
to  her,  and  then  forever  passed  her  I)}'. 


All  minds,  except  such  as  arc  delivered  from  doubt 
by  duliu'ss  of  sensibility,  must  be  subject  to  a  recur- 
ring conilict  where  the  many-twisted  conditions  of  life 
have  forbidden  the  fulfilment  of  a  bond.  Tor  in  strict- 
ness there;  is  no  re-placing  of  relations:  the  presence 
of  the  new  does  not  nullify  the  failure  and  breach  of 
the  old.  Life  has  lost  its  perfection;  it  has  been 
maimed;  and  until  the  wounds  are  quite  scarred,  con- 
science continually  casts  backward,  doubting  glances. 


She  who  willingly  lifts  up  the  veil  of  her  married  life 
has  profaned  it  from  a  sanctuary  into  a  vulgar  place. 


If  energetic  belief,  pursuing  a  grand  and  remote  end, 
is  often  in  danger  of  becoming  a  demon-worship,  in 
which  the  votary  h-ts  hi<  son  and  daughter  pa>s  through 
the  lire  with  a  readiness  (hat  hardly  look-,  like  sacri- 
fice: tender  fellow-feeling  for  t  he  nearest  has  its  dan- 
ger too,  and  is  apt  to  be  timid  and  sci -piieal  towards 
the  larger  aims  without  which  life  cannot  rise  into 
religion. 


ROJIOLA.  141 

It  is  the  lot  of  every  man  who  has  to  speak  for  the 
satisfaction  of  the  crowd,  that  he  must  often  speak  in 
virtue  of  yesterday's  faith,  hoping  it  will  come  back 
to-morrow. 


There  are  moments  when  our  passions  speak  and 
decide  for  us,  and  we  seem  to  stand  by  and  wonder. 
They  carry  in  them  au  inspiration  of  crime,  that  in  one 
instant  does  the  work  of  long  premeditation. 


It  is  in  the  nature  of  all  human  passion,  the  lowest 
as  well  as  the  highest,  that  there  is  a  point  at  which  it 
ceases  to  be  properly  egoistic,  and  is  like  a  fire  kindled 
within  our  being  to  which  everything  else  in  us  is  mere 
fuel. 


Love  does  not  aim  simply  at  the  conscious  good  of 
the  beloved  object:  it  is  not  satisfied  without  perfect 
loyalty  of  heart :  it  aims  at  its  o\vn  completeness. 


Life  never  seems  so  clear  and  easy  us  when  the  heart 
is  beating  faster  at  the  sight  of  some  generous  self- 
risking  deed.  We  feel  no  doubt  then  what  is  the  high- 
est, prize  the  soul  can  win;  we  almost  believe  in  our 
own  power  to  attain  it. 


As  llomola  walked,  often  in  weariness,  among  the 


sick,  the  hungry,  and  the  murmuring,  she  felt  it  good 
to  be  inspired  by  something  more  than  her  pity  —  by 
the  belief  in  a  heroism  struggling  for  sublime  ends, 
towards  which  the  daily  action  of  her  pity  could  only 
tend  feebly,  as  the  dews  that  freshen  the  weedy  ground 
to-day  tend  to  prepare  an  unseen  harvest  in  the  years 
to  come. 


After  all  has  been  said  that  can  be  said  about  the 
widening  influence  of  ideas,  it  remains  true  that  they 
would  hardly  be  such  strong  agents  unless  they  were 
taken  in  a  solvent  of  feeling.  The  great  world-struggle 
of  developing  thought  is  continually  foreshadowed  in 
the  struggle  of  the  affections,  seeking  a  justification 
for  love  and  hope. 


To  the  common  run  of  mankind  it  has  always  seemed 
a  proof  of  mental  vigor  to  find  moral  questions  easy, 
and  judge  conduct  according  to  concise  alternatives. 


To  have  a  mind  well  oiled  with  that  sort  of  argument 
•which  prevents  any  claim  from  grasping  it.  seems  emi- 
nently convenient  sometimes;  only  the  oil  becomes 
objectionable  when  we  find  it  anointing  other  minds 
on  which  we  want  to  establish  a  hold. 


As  a  strong  body  struggles  against  fumes  with  the 
more  violence  when  they  begin  to  be  stilling,  a  strong 
soul  struggle's  against  phantasies  with  all  the  more 
alarmed  energy  when  they  threaten  to  govern  in  the 
place  of  thought. 


ROMOLA.  143 

Hard  speech  between  those  who  have  loved  is 
hideous  iu  the  memory,  like  the  sight  of  greatness 
and  beauty  sunk  into  vice  and  rags. 

It  is  the  way  with  half  the  truth  amidst  which  we 
live,  that  it  only  haunts  us  and  makes  dull  pulsations 
that  are  never  born  into  sound. 


A  course  of  action  which  is  in  strictness  a  slowly- 
prepared  outgrowth  of  the  entire  character,  is  yet 
almost  always  traceable  to  a  single  impression  as  its 
point  of  apparent  origin. 


Unscrupulousness  gets  rid  of  much,  but  not  of  tooth- 
ache, or  wounded  vanity,  or  the  sense  of  loneliness, 
against  which,  as  the  world  at  present  stands,  there  is 
no  security  but  a  thoroughly  healthy  jaw,  and  a  just, 
loving  soul. 


In  the  stress  and  heat  of  the  day,  with  cheeks  burn- 
ing, with  shouts  ringing  in  the  cars,  who  is  so  blest  as 
to  remember  the  yearnings  lie  had  in  the-  cool  and 
silent  morning,  and  know  that  he  has  not  belied  them? 


Tito  was  at  one  of  those  lawless  moments  which 
come  to  us  all  if  we  have  no  guide  but  desire,  and  the 
pathway  where  desire  leads  us  seems  suddenly  closed  ; 
he  was  ready  to  follow  any  beckoning  that  o  lie  red  him 
an  immediate  purpose. 


Tito  was  experiencing  that  inexorable  law  of  human 


1-14  EOHOLA. 


Tito  had  an  innate  love  of  reticence —  let  us  say  a 
talent  for  i!:  —  which  acted  as  other  impulses  do,  with- 
out any  conscious  motive,  and.  like  all  people  to  \vhom 
concealment  is  easy,  he  would  now  ami  then  conceal 
something  which  had  as  little  the  nature  oi' ;i  secret  as 
the  1'uct  that  he  had  seen  a  lli^ht  of  crows. 


When  was  the  fatal  coquetry  inherent  in  superfluous 
authorship  ever  quite  contented  with  the  ready  praise 
of  friends? 


Perfect  scheming  demands  omniscience. 


Tito  felt  for  the  first  time,  without  defining  it  to  him- 
self, that  loving  awe  in  the  presence  of  noble  woman- 
hood, which  is  perhaps  something  like  the  wor.-hip 
paid  of  old  to  a  li'reat  nature-goddess,  who  was  not 
all-knowini;,  but  whose  life  and  power  were  something 
deeper  and  more  primordial  than  knowledge. 


Perhaps  of  all  sombre  paths  that  on  which  we  1:0 
back,  after  treading  it  with  a  strong  resolution,  is  the 
one  that  most  severely  tests  the  fervor  of  renuncia- 
tion. 


ROXOLA.  145 

blown  chances,  incalculable  as  the  descent  of  thistle- 
down. 


Our  lives  make  a  moral  tradition  for  our  individual 
selves,  us  the  life  of  mankind  at  large  makes  a  moral 
tradition  for  the  race;  and  to  have  once  acted  greatly 
seems  a  reason  why  we  should  always  be  noble. 


There  is  no  kind  of  conscious  obedience  that  is  not 
an  advance  on  lawlessness. 


A  widow  at  fifty-live  whose  satisfaction  has  been 
largely  drawn  from  what  she  thinks  of  her  own  person, 
and  what  she  believes  others  think  of  it,  requires  a 
great  fund  of  imagination  to  keep  her  spirits  buoyant. 


In  the  career  of  a  great  public  orator  who  yields 
himself  to  the  inspiration  of  tin-  moment,  that  conflict 
of  selii.-h  and  unselfish  emotion  which  in  most  men  is 
hidden  in  the  chamber  of  the  soul,  is  brought  into'tcr- 
rihle  evidence;  the  language  of  the  inner  voices  is 
written  out  in  letters  of  lire. 


lioinola  felt  that  intensity  of  life  which  seems  to 
transcend  both  grief  and  joy  —  in  which  the  mind 
seems  to  itself  akin  to  elder  forces  that  wrought  out 
existence  before  the  birth  of  pleasure  and  pain. 


This  \vas   the   tangled  web   that  Ko'.nola   had  in  her 
mind   as  she   sat  weary  in  the  darkness.     No  radiant 
angel  came  across  the  gloom  with  a  clear  message  for 
10 


1-1 G  ROMOLA. 

her.  In  those  times,  as  now,  (here  were  human  beings 
who  never  saw  angels  or  heard  perfectly  clear  mes- 
sages. Such  truth  as  came  to  them  was  brought  con- 
fusedly in  the  voices  and  deeds  of  men  not  at  all  like 
the  seraphs  of  unfailing  wing  and  piercing  vision  — 
men  who  believed  falsities  as  well  as  truths,  and  did 
the  wrong  as  well  as  the  right.  The  helping  hands 
stretched  out  to  them  were  the  hands  of  men  who 
stumbled  and  often  saw  dimly,  so  that  these  beings 
unvisited  by  angels  had  no  other  choice  than  to  grasp 
that  stumbling  guidance  along  the  path  of  reliance  and 
action  which  is  the  path  of  life,  or  else  to  pause  in 
loneliness  and  disbelief,  which  is  no  path,  but  the  ar- 
rest of  inaction  and  death. 


There  was  nothing  transcendent  in  Savonarola's  face. 
It  was  not.  beautiful.  It  was  strong- featured,  and  owed 
all  its  refinement  to  habits  of  mind  and  rigid  discipline 
of  the  body.  The  source  of  the  impression  his  glance; 
produced  on  Komola  was  the  sense  it  conveyed  to  her 
of  interest,  in  her  and  care  for  her  apart  from  any 
personal  feeling.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  en- 
countered a  ga/.e  in  which  simple  human  fellowship 
expressed  itself  as  a  si  rongly-felt  bond.  Such  a  glance 
is  half  the  vocation  of  the  priest  or  spiritual  guide  of 
men. 


ROMOLA.  147 

The  inspiring  consciousness  breathed  into  Eomola 
by  Savonarola's  influence  that  her  lot  was  vitally  united 
with  the  general  lot  had  exalted  even  the  minor  details 
of  obligation  into  religion.  She  was  marching  with  a 
great  army;  she  was  feeling  the  stress  of  a  common 
life.  If  victims  were  needed,  and  it  was  uncertain  on 
whom  the  lot  might  fall,  she  would  stand  ready  to 
answer  to  her  name.  She  had  stood  long;  she  had 
striven  hard  to  fulfil  the  bond,  but  she  had  seen  all  the 
conditions  which  made  the  fulfilment  possible  grad- 
ually forsaking  her.  The  one  effect  of  her  marriage- 
tie  seemed  to  be  the  stifling  predominance  over  her  of 
a  nature  that  she  despised.  All  her  efforts  at  union 
had  only  made  its  impossibility  more  palpable,  and  the 
relation  had  become  for  her  simply  a  degrading  ser- 
vitude. The  law  was  sacred.  Yes,  but  rebellion  might 
be  sacred  too.  It  flashed  upon  her  mind  that  the 
probk'in  before  her  was  essentially  the  same  as  that 
which  had  lain  before  Savonarola  —  the  problem  whore 
the  sacredncsrf  of  obedience  ended,  and  where  the  sa- 
crediuvss  of  rebellion  began.  To  her,  as  to  him,  there 
had  come  one  of  those  moments  in  life  when  the  soul 
roust  dare  to  act  on  its  own  warrant,  not  only  without 
external  law  to  appeal  to,  but  in  the  face  of  a  law 
which  is  not  unarmed  with  Divine  lightnings  —  light- 
nings that  may  yet  fall  if  the  warrant  has  been  false. 


Xo  soul  is  desolate  as  long  as  there  is  a  human  '^eii.g 
for  whom  it  can  feel  trust  and  reverence.  Ko.nola's 
trust  in  Savonarola  was  something  like  a  rope  sus- 
pended securely  by  her  path,  making  her  step  elastic 


148  ROXOLA. 


while  she  grasped  it;  if  it  were  suddenly  removed,  no 
firmness  of  the  ground  she  trod  could  save  her  from 
staggering,  or  perhaps  from  falling. 


Savonarola's  nature  was  one  of  those  in  which  op- 
posing tendencies  coexist  in  almost  equal  strength: 
the  passionate  sensibility  which,  impatient  of  definite 
thought,  Hoods  every  idea  with  emotion  and  tends 
towards  contemplative  ecstacy,  alternated  in  him  with 
a  keen  perception  of  outward  facts  ami  a  vigorous 
practical  judgment  of  men  and  things. 


It  was  the  habit  of  Savonarola's  mind  to  conceive 
great  things,  and  to  feel  that  he  was  the  man  to  do 
them.  Iniquity  should  be  brought  low;  the  cause  of 
justice,  purity,  and  love  should  triumph;  and  it  should 
triumph  by  his  voice,  by  his  work,  by  his  blood.  In 
moments  of  ecstatic  contemplation,  doubtless  the  M-nse 
of  self  melted  in  the  sense  of  the  unspeakable,  and  in 
that  part  of  his  experience  lay  the  elements  of  genuine 
self-abasement;  but  in  the  presence  of  his  fellow-men 
for  whom  he  was  to  act,  preeminence  seemed  a  nec- 
essary condition  of  his  life. 


Perhaps  no  man  has  ever  had  a  mighty  influence 
over  his  fellows  without  having  the  innate  need  to 
dominate,  and  this  need  usually  becomes  the  more  im- 
perious in  proportion  as  the  complications  of  life 
make  Self  inseparable  from  a  purpose  which  is  not 
selfish. 


ROMOLA.  M> 

Impelled  partly  by  the  spiritual  necessity  Iliat  was 
laid  upon  him  to  guide  the  people,  and  partly  by  the 
prompting  of  public  men  who  could  get  no  measures 
carried  without  his  aid,  Savonarola  was  rapidly  pass- 
ing in  his  daily  sermons  from  the  general  to  the 
special  —  from  telling  his  hearers  that  they  must  post- 
pone their  private  passions  and  interests  to  the  public 
good,  to  telling  them  precisely  what  sort  of  govern- 
ment they  must  have  in  order  to  promote  that  good  — 
from  ''Choose  whatever  is  best  for  all"  to  "('house 
the  Great  Council,"  and  "  the  Great  Council  is  the  will 
of  God." 

To  Savonarola  these  were  as  good  as  identical  prop- 
ositions. The  Great  Council  was  the  only  practicable 
plan  for  giving  an  expression  to  the  public  will  large 
enough  to  counteract  the  vitiating  inlluence  of  party 
interests:  it  was  a  plan  thai,  would  make  honest  im- 
partial public  action  at  least  possible.  And  the  purer 
the  government  of  Florence  would  become  —  the  more 
secure  from  the  designs  of  men  who  saw  their  own 
advantage  in  the  moral  debasement  of  their  fellows  — 
the  nearer  would  the  Florentine  people  approach  the 
character  of  a  pure  community,  worthy  to  lead  the 
way  in  the  renovation  of  the  Church  and  the  world. 
And  Fra  Girolamo's  mind  never  stopped  short  of  that 
sublimes)  end:  the  objects  towards  which  h;  felt  him- 
self working  had  always  the  same  moral  magnilicence. 
lie  had  no  private  malice  —  he  sought  no  petty  gratifi- 
cation. Even  in  the  last,  terrible  days,  when  igno- 
miny, torture,  and  the  fear  of  torture',  had  laid  bare 
tvery  hidden  weakness  of  his  soul,  IIP  could  say  to 


lf>0 

his  importunate  judges  :  "  Do  not  wonder  if  it  seems 
to  you  that  I  have  told  but  fe\v  things ;  for  my  pur- 
poses were  few  and  great." 


The  real  force  of  demonstration  for  Girolumo  Savo- 
narola lay  in  his  own  burning  indignation  at  the  sight 
of  wrong;  in  his  fervent  belief  in  an  Unseen  .Justice 
that  would  put  an  end  to  the  wrong,  anil  in  an  Unseen 
Purity  to  which  lying  and  uncleanness  were  an  abomi- 
nation. To  his  ardent,  power-loving  soul, believing  in 
great  ends,  and  longing  to  achieve  those  ends  by  the 
exertion  of  its  own  strong  will,  the  faith  in  a  supremo 
and  righteous  liuler  became  one  with  the  faith  in  a 
speedy  divine  interposition  that  would  punish  and 
reclaim. 


The  worst  drop  of  bitterness  ran  never  be  wrung 
on  to  our  lips  from  without :  the  lowest  depth  of  resig- 
nation is  not  to  be  found  in  martyrdom;  it  is  only  to 
be  found  when  we  have  covered  our  heads  in  silence 
and  fe.lt,  "  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  a  martyr;  the  truth 
shall  prosper,  but  not  by  me." 


There  is  no  jot  of  worthy  evidence  that  from  the 
time  of  his  imprisonment  to  the  supreme  moment, 
Savonarola  thought  or  spoke  of  himsrlf  as  a  mariyr. 
The  idea  of  martyrdom  had  been  to  him  a  pas.-ion 
dividing  the  dream  of  the  future  with  the  triumph  of 
beholding  his  work  aehievrd.  And  nmv,  in  place  of 
both,  had  come  a  resignation  which  lie  called  by  no 
irlori lying  name. 


ROJWLA.  1")1 

But  therefore  lie  may  the  more  fitly  be  called  a 
martyr  by  his  fellow-men  to  all  time.  For  power  rose 
against  him  not  because  of  his  sins,  but  because  of  his 
great  ness  —  not  because  he  sought  to  deceive  the 
world,  but  because  he  sought  to  make  it  noble.  And 
through  that  greatness  of  his  he  endured  a  double 
agony:  not  only  the  reviling,  and  the  torture,  and  the 
death-throe,  but  the  agony  of  sinking  from  the  vision 
of  glorious  achievement  into  that  deep  shadow  where 
lie  could  only  say,  "I  count  as  nothing:  darkness 
encompasses  me  :  yet  the  light  I  saw  was  the  true 
light." 


Perhaps,  while  no  preacher  ever  had  a  more  massiA'e 
influence  than  Savonarola,  no  preacher  ever  had  more 
heterogeneous  materials  to  work  upon.  And  one 
secret,  of  the  massive  influence  lay  in  the  highly  mixed 
character  of  his  preaching.  Baldassarre,  wrought,  into 
an  ecstasy  of  self-martyring  revenge,  was  only  an  ex- 
treme case  among  the  partial  and  narrow  sympathies 
of!  hat  audience.  In  Savonarola's  preaching  there  were 
strains  that  appealed  to  the  very  finest  susceptibil- 
ities of  men's  natures,  and  there  were  elements  that 
gratilicd  low  egoism,  tickled  gossiping  curiosity,  anil 
fascinated  timorous  superstition.  His  need  of  per- 
sonal predominance,  his  labyrinthine  allegorical  inter- 
pret at  ions  of  t  he  Script  ures,  his  enigma)  ic  visions,  and 
his  false  certitude  about  the  Divine  intentions,  never 
ceased,  in  his  own  large  soul,  to  be  ennobled  by  that 
fervid  piety,  that  passionate  sense  of  the  infinite,  that 
active  sympathy,  that  clear-sighted  demand  for  the 


1~)2  KOMOT.A. 

subjection  of  sellish  interests  to  the  general  jcood, 
Avhicli  he  had  in  coininon  with  the1  greatest  of  man- 
kind. JJnt  for  the  mass  of  his  audience  all  the  preg- 
nancy of  his  preaching  lay  in  his  strong  assertion  of 
supernatural  claims,  in  liis  denunciatory  visions,  in  tin; 
false  cerl  itude  which  c;ave  his  sermons  the  interest  of 
a  political  bulletin:  and  having  once  held  that  audi- 
ence in  his  mastery,  it  was  necessary  to  his  nature  — 
it  was  necessary  for  their  "Welfare — that  he  should 
/,•<•' i'i  the  mastery.  'J'he  eli'ect  was  inevitable.  Xo  man 
ever  strim'u'led  to  retain  power  over  a  mixed  multitude 
•without  sulfcriiiLr  vitiation;  his  standard  must  be  their 
lower  needs,  and  not  his  own  best  insight. 

The  mysteries  of  human  character  have  seldom  been 
presented  in  a  way  more  lilted  to  check  the  judirmenls 
of  facile  knowhiLriic-ss  than  in  Girolamo  Savonarola; 
but  we  can  u'ive  him  a  reverence  that  needs  no  shut- 
ting of  thu  eyes  to  fact,  if  we  regard  his  life  as  a  drama 
in  which  there  were  uTeat  inward  inodilications  accom- 
panying the  outward  changes.  And  up  to  this  period, 
•when  liis  more  direct  action  on  political  alfairs  had 
only  just  beicun.  it  is  probable  that  his  imperious  need 
of  ascendency  had  burned  undisccrnibly  in  the  .strong 
llaim;  of  his  x.eal  for  dod  and  man. 

It  was  the  fashion  of  old.  \\hen  an  ox  was  led  out 
for  sacriiice  to  .Jupiter,  to  chalk  the  dark  spots,  and 
j,rivu  the  oU'erin^c  a  false  show  ol'  nnblemishi  d  white- 
ness. Let  us  Him:  away  the  chalk,  and  boldly  say.— 
the  vic'im  is  spotted,  but  it  i-  not  then-fun.:  in  vain 
that  hN  mi.u'hty  heart  is  laid  on  the  altar  of  men's 
highest  hopes. 


R03IOLA.  153 

Be  not  offended,  ltd  yiovane ;  I  am  but  repeating 
what  I  hear  in  my  shop:  as  you  may  perceive,  my 
eloquence  is  simply  the  cream  which  I  skim  oil'  my 
clients'  talk.  Heaven  forbid  I  should  fetter  1113-  im- 
partiality by  entertaining  an  opinion.1 


Ah,  mind  is  an  enemy  to  beauty!  I  myself  was 
thought  beautiful  by  the  women  at  one  time — when  I 
was  in  my  swaddling-bands.  Hut  now  —  oime  !  I  carry 
my  unwritten  poems  in  cipher  on  my  face- ! J 


We  Florentines  have  liberal  ideas  about  speech,  and 
consider  that  an  instrument  which  can  Hatter  and  prom- 
ise so  cleverly  as  the  tongue,  must  have  been  paniy 
made  for  those  purposes  ;  and  that  truth  is  a  riddle  for 
eyes  and  wit  to  discover,  which  it  were  a  mere  spoil- 
ing of  sport  for  the  tongue  to  betray.1 


The  secret  of  oratory  lies,  not  in  saying  new  things, 
but  in  saying  things  with  a  certain  power  that  moves 
the  hearers  —  without  which,  as  old  Filelfo  has  said, 
your  speaker  deserves  to  be  called,  "non  oratorem.  sed 
oratorem."  And,  according  to  that  test,  Fra  Girolamo 
is  a  great  orator.3 


I  measure  men's  dulness  by  the  devices  they  trust  in 
for  deceiving  others. 


154  ItOJfOLA. 

Voracity  is  a  plant  of  paradise,  and  the   seeds  have 
never  nourished  beyond  the  \\-;ills.:1 


Many  of  these  half-\vay  severities  are  mere  hot- 
headed blundering-  The  only  safe  blows  to  be  iu- 
ilicted  on  men  and  parties  are  the  blows  that  are  too 
heavy  to  be  avenged.3 


If  a  man  incurs  odium  by  sanctioning  a  severity 
that  is  not  thorough  enough  to  be  liual,  lie  commits  a 
blunder.3 


Father,  it  is  a  great  gift  of  the  gods  to  be  born  with 
a  hatred  and  contempt  of  all  injustice  and  meanness. 
Yours  is  u  higher  lot.  never  to  have  lied  and  truckled, 
than  to  have  shared  honors  won  bv  dishonor.3 


You   talk  of  sub-'an:i:d    :•;>>!.  Tiio!     Are   fai'hfiil- 

DCvS,   and  love,  ailil  sweet   UlMIeflll   mem   il'ie-.  in)  UMod? 

Is  it  no  good  that  we  >h  >\i\\   k>.->  :»  our  silent   promises 
on  which  others  build  because  lliev  believe  in  our  love 


ROXOLA.  155 

and  trutli?  Is  it  no  good  that  a  just  life  should  be 
justly  honored?  Or,  is  it  good  that  we  should  harden 
our  hearts  against  all  the  \vanL.s  and  hopes  of  those 
wiio  have  depended  on  us?  What  good  can  belong  to 
men  \vlio  have  such  souls?  To  talk  cleverly,  perhaps, 
and  lind  soft  couches  for  themselves,  and  live  and  die 
with  their  base  selves  as  their  best  companions.4 


It  is  only  a  poor  sort  of  happiness,  my  Lillo,  that 
could  ever  come  by  caring  very  much  about  our  own 
narrow  pleasures.  We  can  only  have  the  highest  hap- 
piness, such  as  goes  along  with  being  a  great  man,  by 
having  wide  thoughts,  and  much  feeling  for  the  rest 
of  the  world  as  well  as  ourselves;  and  this  sort  of 
happiness  oi'len  brings  so  much  pain  with  it,  that  we 
can  only  lell  it  from  pain  by  ils  being  what  we  would 
choose-  before  everything  else,  because  our  souls  sec  it 
is  good.  There  are  so  many  tilings  wrong  and  diili- 
cult  in  the  world,  that  no  man  can  be  great  —  he  can 
hardly  keep  himself  from  wickedness  —  unless  he  gives 
up  thinking  much  about  pleasure  or  rewards,  and  gets 
strength  to  endure  what  is  hard  and  painful.  IMy 
lather  had  the  greatness  that  belong.-;  to  integriiy;  he 
chose  poverty  and  obscurity  rather  than  falsehood. 
And  there  was  i'ra  Girolamo — you  know  why  I  keep 
to-morrow  sacred;  Jtc.  had  the  greatness  which  belongs 
to  a  life  spent  in  struggling  against  powerful  wrong, 
and  in  trying  to  rai.->e  men  to  the  highest  deeds  I'.i  -y 
are  capabh1  of.  And  so,  my  Lilio,  if  you  mean  to  act 
nobly  and  seek  to  know  1  he  best,  tilings  (iod  lias  put 
wilhin  reach  of  men,  you  must  learn  to  tix  your  mind 


156  KOJfOLA. 

on  that  end,  and  not  on  what  will  happen  to  you 
because  of  it.  And  remember,  if  you  \\vre  to  choose 
something  lower.  a;ul  make  it  the  rule  of  your  life  to 
seek  your  own  pleasure  and  escape  from  what  is  dis- 
agreeable, calamity  miirht  come  just  the  same;  and  it 
would  bo  calamity  falling  on  a  base  mind,  which  is  the 
one  form  of  sorrow  that  has  no  balm  in  it.  and  that 
may  well  make  a  man  say.  —  '-It  would  have  been 
better  for  me  if  I  had  never  been  born."4 


It  is  too  often  the  "palma  sine  pulvere."  the  pri/.e  of 
glory  without  the  dust  of  the  race,  that  youuu'  ambition 
covets.  But  what  says  the  Greek?  '•  In  the  m'miing 
of  life,  work;  in  the  mid-day,  give  counsel;  in  the 
evening,  pray."5 


EOJIOLA.  If)  7 


You  are  flying  from  your  debts  :  the  debt  of  a  Flor- 
entine woman;  the  debt  of  a  wife.  You  are  turning 
your  back  on  the  lot  that  has  been  appointed  fur  you 
• — you  are  i;x>ing  to  choose  another.  But  can  manor 
woman  choose  diuies?  Xo  more  than  they  can  choose 
their  birthplace,  or  their  father  and  mother.  My 
daughter,  you  are  fieeiny  from  the  presence  of  God 
into  the  wilderness. y 


You  are  seeking  your  own  will,  my  daughter.  Y'ou 
are  seeking  some  i4'ood  other  than  the  law  you  are 
bound  to  obey.  But  how  will  you  lind  li'ood?  It  is 
not  ji  t'iiim'  ul'  choice  :  it  is  a  river  that  Hows  from  the 
foot  of  the  Invisible  Throne,  and  llo\vs  l*y  the  path  of 
obedience.  1  say  aiiTiin,  m;:n  cannot  choose  his  duties. 
You  may  choose  to  forsake  your  duties,  ;md  choose 
no!  to  have  the  sorrow  they  briiiL?.  But  you  will  p; 
forth;  and  what  will  you  lind,  my  daimliter?  Sorrow 
without  duty  —  bitter  herbs,  and  no  bread  with  them.3 


158  KO.VOLA. 

My  daughter,  if  the  cross  comes  to  you  as  a  wifV>, 
you  must  carry  it  as  a  wife.  You  may  say,  "  I  will 
forsake  my  husband,"  but  you  cannot  cease  to  be  a 
wife.8 


The  higher  life  begins  for  us.  my  daughter,  when  we 
renounce  out'  own  will  to  bow  before  a  Divine  law. 
That  .seems  hard  to  you.  It  is  the  portal  of  wisdom, 
and  freedom,  and  blessedness.  And  the  symbol  of  it 
hangs  before  you.  That  wisdom  is  the  religion  of  the 
cross.8 


The  cause  of  freedom,  which  is  the  cause  of  God's 
kingdom  upon  earth,  is  often  most  injured  by  the  ene- 
mies who  cany  within  them  the  power  of  certain  hu- 
man virtues.  The  wickedest  man  is  often  not  the  most 
insurmountable  obstacle  to  the  triumph  of  irood. 


Ji'imnln.  —  Take  care,  father,  lest  your  enemies  have 
some  rraxm  when  the}' say.  that  in  your  visions  (if 
win!  will  fiirt her  Cud's  kingdom  you  .-ee  only  what 
will  sireiiLTihen  your  own  party. 

ti'tcuii'tml't. — And  that,  is  true!  The  cause  of  my 
parly  />•  the  cause-  of  God's  kingdom. 

Hum"!"..  —  I  do  not  believe  ii  !  God's  kinirdom  is 
something  wider  —  else,  let  me  stand  out.-ide  it  with 
the  beinii's  i  ha!  I  love. 


R01WLA.  159 

(insurrection)  :  I  say,  never  do  you  plan  a  romor ;  you 
may  as  well  try  to  lill  Arno  with  buckets.  When 
there's  water  enough  Arno  will  be  full,  and  that  will 
not  be  till  the  torrent  is  ready.9 


A  philosopher  is  the  last  sort  of  animal  I  should 
choose  to  resemble.  1  lind  it  enough  to  live,  without 
spinning  lies  to  account  for  life. 


A  perfect  traitor  should  have  a  face  which  vice  can 
write  no  marks  on  —  lips  that  will  lie  with  a  dimpled 
smile  —  eyes  of  such  agate-like  brightness  and  depth 
thai  no  iu1';;i:iy  can  dull  them  —  cheeks  that  will  rise 
from  a  murder  and  not  look  haggard.1" 


Holy  Madonna!  It  seems  as  if  widows  had  nothing 
to  do  no\v  but  to  buy  their  coilins  and  think  it  a  thou- 
sand years  till  they  get  into  them,  instead  of  enjoying 
themselves  a  liitle  when  they've  got  their  hands  free 
for  the  iirst  time.11 


1GO  KOXOLA. 

There  has  been  no  great  people  without  processions, 
and  the  man  who  thinks  himself  too  wise  (o  be  moved 
by  them  to  anything  but  contempt,  is  like  (lie  puddle 
that  was  proud  of  standing  alone  while  the  river  rushed 
by.12 


Xo  man  is  matriculated  to  the  art  of  life  till  he  has 
been  well  tempted.  •- 


I  remember  onr  Antonio  getting  bitter  about  his 
chiselling  and  enamelling  of  these  metal  tilings,  and 
taking  in  a  fury  to  painting,  because,  said  he,  "the 
artist  who  puts  his  work  into  gold  and  silver,  puts  his 
brains  into  the  melting-pot.13 


After  all  the  talk  of  scholars,  there  are  but  two  sorts 
of  government :  one  where  men  show  thru1  teeth  at 
each  oilier,  and  one  where  men  .show  their  tongues 
and  lick  the  feet  of  the  strongest.13 


To  manage  men  one  ought  to  have  a  sharp  mind  in 
a  velvet  sheath.14 

KM)    OV    "  KOMOL.Y." 


FELIX    HOLT. 


FELIX    HOLT. 


TIIKKK  is  seldom  any  wrong-doing  which  docs  not 
carry  along  with  it  some  downfall  of  blindly-climbing 
hopes,  sonic  hard  entail  of  suffering,  some  quickly- 
satiated  desire  that  survives,  with  Hie  life  in  death  of 
old  paralytic  vice,  to  see  itself  cursed  by  its  wofnl 
progeny —  some  tragic  mark  of  kinship  in  the  one  brief 
life  to  the  far-stretching  life  that  went  before,  and  to 
the  life  that  is  to  come  after,  such  as  has  raised  the 
pity  and  terror  of  men  ever  since  (hey  began  to  discern 
between  will  and  destiny.  But  these  things  are  often 
unknown  to  the  world;  for  there  is  much  pain  that 
is  quite  noiseless;  and  vibrations  that  make  human 
agonies  are  ofidi  a  mere  whisper  in  the  roar  of  hurrv- 
ing  existence.  There  are  glances  of  hatred  that  stab 
and  rai^e  no  cry  of  murder;  robberies  (hat  leave  man 
or  woman  forever  beggared  of  peace- and  joy,  yet  kept 
secret  by  (he  sull'erer- — committed  to  no  sound  except 
I  hat,  of  low  moans  in  the  night,  seen  in  no  writing 
except  that  made  on  the  face  by  the  slow  months  of 
suppressed  anguish  and  early  morning  tears.  Many 
an  inherited  sorrow  that  has  marred  a  life  has  been 
breathed  into  no  human  car. 

(163) 


IG-i  Ft:  I.  IX  IInLT. 

Fancy  what  u  game  at  chess  would  be  if  all  the 
chessmen  had  passions  and  intellects,  more  or  Irss 
small  and  cunning:  it'  you  w<  re  not  only  uncertain 
about  your  adversary's  men,  but  a  lilile  uncertain  also 
about  your  own;  if  your  knight  could  shuflle  himself 
on  to  a  new  square  by  the  sly;  if  your  bishop,  in  dis- 
gust at  your  cast  I'm ',r?  could  wheedle  your  pawns  out  of 
their  places ;  and  if  your  pawns,  hating  you  because 
they  are  pawns,  could  make  away  from  their  appointed 
posts  that  you  miirht  tret  checkmate  on  a  sudden.  You 
niiirht  be  the  louirest-headed  of  deductive  reasoner.?, 
and  yet  you  miirlit  be  beaten  by  your  own  pawns. 
You  would  be  especially  likely  to  be  beaten,  if  you 
depended  arrogantly  on  your  mathematical  imagina- 
tion, and  regarded  your  pas>ionate  pieces  with  con- 
tempt. 

Yet  this  imaginary  chess  is  easy  compared  with  the 
game  a  man  has  to  play  against  his  fellow-men  wiMi 
other  1'cilow-men  for  his  instruments.  He  thinks  hiin- 
si  If  sagacious,  jiei'haps.  because  he  trusts  no  bond 
except  that  of  self-intei'<\-t  :  bin  the  only  self-interest 
lie  c;in  s;!:'ely  r^'ly  on  is  what  seems  to  be  such  to  the 
mind  he  would  use  or  govern.  Can  lie  ever  be  sure  of 
knowing  thi>? 


FELIX  HOLT.  1G5 

where  and  how  she  wills  :  to  know  that  high  initiation, 
she  must  often  tread  where  it  is  hard  to  tread,  and  feel 
the  chill  air,  and  watch  through  darkness.  It  is  not 
true  that  love  makes  all  things  easy :  it  makes  us 
choose  what  is  tlillicult. 


The  man  who  has  failed  in  the  use  of  some  indirect- 
ness, is  helped  very  little  by  the  fact  that  his  rivals  are 
men  to  whom  that  indirectness  is  a  something'  human, 
very  far  from  being  alien.  There  remains  this  grand 
distinction,  that  he  lias  Jailed,  and  that  the  jet  of  light 
is  thrown  eutirelv  on  his  misdoings. 


Even  the  flowers  and  the  pure  sunshine,  and  the 
sweet  waters  of  Paradise  would  have  been  spoiled  for 
a  young  heart,  if  the  bowcred  walks  had  been  haunted 
by  an  Kve  gone  gray  wiih  hitler  memories  of  an  Adam 
who  had  complained,  ';  The  woman  .  .  .  she  gave  me 
of  the  tree,  and  I  did  eal."  And  many  of  us  know* 
how,  even  in  our  childhood,  some  blank,  discontented 
face  on  the  background  of  our  home  has  marred  our 
summer  mornirgs.  AVhy  was  it,  when  the  birds  were 
singing,  when  the  lields  were  a  garden,  and  when  we 
were  clasping  another  little  hand  just  larger  than  our 
own,  there  was  somebody  who  found  it  hard  to  smile? 


1GG  FELIX  HOLT. 

sinners  who  cling  to  each  oilier  in  tlic  fiery  whirlwind 
and  never  recriminate. 


lUmning  :i\v;iy,  especial ly  "when  spoken  of  as  ab- 
sconding, seems  at  a  distance  to  oiler  a  good  modern 
substitute  for  the  right  of  sanctuary  ;  but  seen  clo-ely, 
it  is  often  found  inconvenient  and  scarcely  possible. 


"\Ve  are  all  of  us  made  more  graceful  by  the  inward 
presence  of  what  we  believe  to  be  a  generous  purpose; 
our  actions  move  to  a  hidden  music  —  "  a  melody  that's 
sweetly  played  in  tune." 


It  is  only  in  that  freshness  of  our  time  (i.  c.  youth) 
that  the  choice  is  possible  which  gives  unity  to  life, 
and  makes  ihe  memory  a  temple  where  all  relics  and 
all  votive  offerings,  all  wor.-hip  and  all  grateful  joy,  are 
an  unbroken  historv  sauctilied  bv  oue  religion. 


Il  is  terrible  —  I  lie  keen  brighl  eye  of  a  wo:  11:111  when 
it  mi-  once  been  lurned  \\i:h  adiniraii  in  on  wlia!  is 
severi/lv  true;  bu!  tli''ii  the  severely  true  rarely  comes 
withiu  its  range  ol'vistou. 


FELIX  HOLT.  167 

A  woman's  lot  is  made  for  her  by  the  love  she  ac- 
cepts. 


It  comes  in  so  many  forms  in  this  life  of  ours  —  the 
knowledge  that  there  is  something  sweetest  and  no- 
blest of  which  we  despair,  and  the  sense  of  something 
present  that  solicits  us  with  an  immediate  and  easy 
indulgence. 


Human  beings  in  moments  of  passionate  reproach 
and  denunciation,  especially  when  their  anger  is  on 
their  own  account,  are  never  so  wholly  in  the  right 
thai  the  person  who  has  to  wince  cannot  possibly  pro- 
test against  some  unreasonableness  or  unfairness  iu 
their  outburst. 


In  the  ages  since  Adam's  marriage,  it  has  been  good 
for  some  men  to  be  alone,  and  for  some  women  also. 


Perhaps  some  of  the  most  terrible  irony  of  the  human 
lot  is  this  of  a  deep  truth  coming  to  be  uttered  by  lips 
that  have  no  right  to  it. 


1G8  FELIX  UOLT. 

A  mind  in  the  prasp  of  a  terrible  anxiety  is  not  cred- 
ulous of  easy  solutions.  The  one  stay  that  bears  up 
our  hopes  is  sure  to  appear  frail,  and  if  looked  at  long 
will  seem  to  totter. 


In  a  mind  of  any  nobleness,  a  lapse  into  transgres- 
sion against  an  object  still  regarded  as  supreme,  issues 
in  a  nc\v  and  purer  devotedne.-s,  chastised  by  humili'y 
and  watched  over  by  a  passionate  regret.  So  it  was 
with  thai  ardent  spirit  which  animated  the  little  body 
of  Kufus  Lyon.  Once  in  his  life  he  had  been  blinded, 
deafened,  hurried  alonir  by  rebellious  impulse;  he 
had  ironc  astray  afier  liis  own  desires,  and  had  let  the 
lire  die  out  on  the  altar:  and  as  the  true  penitent, 
hating  his  self-besotted  error,  a.-ks  from  all  coming  life 
duty  instead  of  joy,  and  service  in>tcad  of  ease,  M> 
JtiifuS  was  perpetually  on  the  watch  le>t  he  >hould 
over  a.Lrain  postpone  to  some  private  ailed  ion  a  irivat 
public  opportunity  which  to  him  was  equivalent  to  a 
command. 


FELIX  HOLT.  1C9 

in  order  to  say  or  do  them.  And  it  has  been  well  be- 
lieved through  many  ages  that  the  beginning  of  com- 
punction is  the  beginning  of  a  ne\v  life;  that  tlie  niind 
which  sees  itself  blameless  may  be  called  dead  in  tres- 
passes—  in  trespasses  on  the  love  of  others,  in  tres- 
passes on  their  weakness,  in  trespasses  on  all  those 
gieiit  claims  which  are  the  linage  of  our  ovni  need. 


It  is  in  the  nature  of  exasperation  gradually  to  con- 
centrate itself.  The  sincere  antipathy  of  a  dog  towards 
eats  in  general,  necessarily  takes  the  form  of  indignant 
barking  at  the  neighbor's  black  cat  which  makes  daily 
trespass;  the  bark  at  imagined  eats,  though  a  fre- 
quent exercise  of  the  canine  mind,  is  yet  comparatively 
feeble. 


It  is  a  fact  perhaps  kepi  a  little  too  much  in  the 
back-ground,  that  mothers  have  a  self  larger  than  tin  ir 
maternity,  and  that  when  their  sons  have  become  taller 
than  themselves,  and  arc  gone  from  them  to  college 
or  into  the  world,  there  are  wide  spaces  of  their  time 
which  are  not  lilled  with  praying  for  their  boys,  read- 
ing old  letters,  and  envying  yet  blessing  those  who  are 
attending  to  their  shirt-buttons. 


170  FI:I.I.\  HOLT. 

din'_r  exceptions  or  additions.  I'ut  what  i<  s'reimil.. 
Is  it  blind  wilfiilness  tiial  sees  n  >  terrors,  1,0  nianv- 
linked  consequences,  no  lirui--es  and  wound-  of  tho^e. 
whose  cords  iL  tightens?  Is  it  the  narrownr-s  <<{'  ;i 
brain  tliat  conceives  no  needs  diilerinu'  IVo:;]  its  «i\vn, 
and  lool-:s  to  no  re-nlts  lic-yond  'lie  bargains  if  to-day; 
Hint  lim^  v.'ith  cinjiluisis  fore-very  s;n:dl  purjio.-e.  and 
thinks  it  weakness  to  exercise  She  .-uMhae  power  of 
ro>olved  renuuci:i:ionV  There  is  a  sort  of  >tiiijecti'.u 
Avliich  N  tlie  peculiar  heri:;i;rc  of  largeness  and  of  love  ; 
and  strength  is  of; en  only  another  name  for  willing 
bondage  to  irremediable  weakness. 


Half  the  sorrows  of  women  would  bo  averted  if  they 
could  repress  the  speech  they  know  to  be  u-'-less  — 
nay,  the  speech  they  have  resolved  not  to  utter. 


Under  protracted  ill  every  living  creature  will  lind 
sonii-tliii!^  thai  makes  a  comparative  ea<e,  and  even 
when  life  seems  woven  of  pain,  will  convert  ihe  fainter 
pan:_r  into  a  de>ire. 


FEL IX  n()L  T.  171 


experience  of  another. 


We  are  very  much   indebted  to  such  a  linking  of 
events  as  makes  a  doubtful  action  look  wrong. 


Harold  was  one  of  tho<e  people  to  whose  presence 
in  the  room  you  could  not  be  indi'lVrent :  if  you  do  not 
hate  or  dread  (hem,  you  must  tind  the  touch  of  their 
hands  nay.  (heir  very  shadows,  agreeable. 

Our  pet  opinions  are  usually  those;  which  place  us  in 
a  minority  of  a  minority  amongst  our  own  party:  — 
very  happily,  else  those  poor  opinions,  born  with  no 
silver  spoon  in  (heir  mouths  —  ho\v  would  they  get 
nourished  and  f'd  ? 


Comprehensive  talkers  are  apt  to  be  tiresome  when 
we  are  not  alhirsf  for  !;:!'•  /riaal  ion.  but  to  be  quiie  fail' 
v,'e  must  admit  that  superior  retici-iu-e  is  a  yooil  deal 
diie  to  the  lack  of  mala1!1.  Speech  is  oileu  barren; 
bui  --Hence  also  does  nol  necussarily  brood  over  a  f;;ll 
nest.  Your  still  fowl,  blinbii:;.;  a!  \cu  witliout  remark, 
]:;ay  all  the  Avhile  be  sitting  on  o:ie  tidilk'd  nest-e;  ' ; 
;;:;d  wlien  it  takes  to  eachliiiu'.  \\'il!  lun  e  noliiln^  to 
;;n;iouuce  but  that  addk'd  del;i--iou. 


172  FELIX  HOLT. 

A  dillident  man  likes  the  idea  of  doing  something 
remarkable,  which  will  create  belief  in  him  without 
any  immediate  display  of  brilliancy.  Celebrity  may 
blush  and  be  silent,  and  win  a  grace  the  more. 


That  talkative  maiden,  Humor,  though  in  the  inter- 
est of  art  she  is  figured  as  a  youthful  winded  beauty 
with  flowing  garments,  soaring  above  the  heads  of 
men,  and  breathing  world-thrilling  news  through  a 
gracefully-curved  trumpet,  is  in  fact  a  very  old  maid, 
who  puckers  her  silly  face  by  the  fireside,  and  really 
does  no  more  than  chirp  a  wrong  guess  or  a  lame  story 
into  the  ear  of  a  fellow-gossip  :  all  (he  rest  of  the  work 
attributed  to  her  is  done  by  the  ordinary  working  of 
those  passions  against  which  men  pray  in  the  Litany, 
with  the  help  of  a  plentiful  stupidity  against  which  we 
have  never  yet  had  any  authorized  form  of  prayer. 


Quick  souls  have  their  intensest  life  in  the  first  an- 
ticipatory sketch  of  what  may  or  will  be.  and  ihe  pur- 
suit of  their  wish  is  the  pursuit  of  that  paradisiacal 
vision  which  only  impelled  them,  and  is  left  farther 
and  farther  behind,  vanishing  forever  even  out  of  hope 
in  the  moment  which  is  called  success. 


There  is  no  private  life  which  has  not  been  deter- 
mined by  a  wider  public  life,  from  ihe  lime  when  the 
primeval  milk-maid  had  to  wander  with  the  wandcr'nurs 
of  her  elan,  because  the  cow  she  milked  vvas  one  of 
a  herd  which  had  made  the  pastures  bare.  Kven  in 
that  conservatory  existence  where  the  fair  Camellia  is 


FELIX  HOLT.  173 

sighed  for  by  the  noble  young  Tine-apple,  neither  of 
them  needing  to  care  about  the  frost  or  rain  outside, 
there  is  a  nether  apparatus  of  hot- Avatcr  pipes  liable  to 
cool  down  on  a  strike  of  the  gardeners  or  a  scarcity  of 
coal. 


I  have  Known  persons  who  have  been  suspected  of 
undervaluing  gratitude,  and  excluding  it  from  the  list 
of  virtues;  but  on  closer  observation  it  has  been  seen 
Ihat,  if  they  have  never  felt  grateful,  it  has  been  for 
want  of  an  opportunity;  anil  that,  far  from  despising 
gratitude,  they  regard  it  as  the  virtue  most  of  all  in- 
cumbent—  on  others  towards  them. 


Perhaps  the  moment  of  most  diffusive  pleasure  from 
public  speaking  is  that  in  which  the  speech  ceases  and 
the  audience  can  turn  to  commenting  on  it.  The  one 
speech,  sometimes  nth-red  under  great  responsibility 
as  to  missiles  and  other  consequences,  has  given  a  text 
to  twenty  speakers  who  are  under  no  responsibility. 
Even  in  the  days  of  duelling  a  man  was  not  challenged 
for  being  a  bore,  nor  does  this  quality  apparently  hin- 
der him  from  being  much  invited  to  dinner,  which  is 
the  great,  index  of  social  responsibility  in  a  less  bar- 
barous age. 


"We  hardlv  allow  enough  in  common  life  for  the  re- 


171:  FELIX  HOLT. 


JV^/i  ominn.  <jr<tniT.l<>r  cttan  yaw  fii>ji<nr< ?(.<?  It'll,'  >,  says 
tin.-  wise  goddess  you  have  not  tin1  best  of  ii  in  :.ll 
things,  ( )  you:!ir>trrs  ;  tin:  elderly  man  has  hi>  enviable 
memories,  and  not  the  least  of  them  is  the  memory  of  a 
long  journey  in  mid-spring  or  autumn  on  the.  otiNMo 
of  a  stage-coach.  Posterity  may  be  shot,  like  a  bullet 
through  a  tube,  by  atmospheric  pressure,  from  Y\" in- 
ches tor  to  Newcastle  :  that  is  a  line  result  to  haver 
among  our  hopes;  but  the  slow  old-l'a-hi<>ned  way  of 
getting  from  one  end  of  our  country  to  the  other  is 
the  better  thing  to  have  in  the  memory.  The  tube- 
journey  can  never  lend  much  to  picture  and  narrative; 
it  is  as  barren  as  an  exclamatory  ()  '.  Whereas  the 
happy  outside  passenger  seated  on  the.-  box  from  the 
dawn  to  the  gloaming  gathered  enough  stories  of 
English  life,  enough  of  English  labors,  in  town  and 
country,  enough  aspects  of  earth  and  sky,  to  make 
episodes  for  a  modern  Odyssey. 


When  a  woman  feels  purely  and  nobly,  that  ardor 
of  hi-rs  which  breaks  through  formula-'  too  rigorously 
urged  on  men  by  daily  practical  need-,  makt  -  one  of 
her  most  preci  HIS  iniluences ;  she  i>  the  added  im- 
pulse that  shatters  the  stiU'ening  cru-t  of  caul  ions 
experience.  Her  in-pin-d  ignorance  gives  a  sublimity 
to  actions  .-••)  incongruously  simple,  that  otherwise 
they  would  make  men  smile. 


FELIX  HOLT.  17.~> 

The  finest  threads,  sncli  as  no  eye  sees,  if  hound 
cnnninu'ly  about  the  sensitive  llesh,  so  that  the  move- 
ment to  break  them  wotiH  bring  torture,  may  make  :i 
Avor.se  bondage  than  any  fetters. 


From  the  British  point  of  view  masculine  beauty  is 
regarded  very  much  as  it  is  in  the  drapery  business  :  — 
as  good  solely  for  the  fancy  department  —  for  young 
noblemen,  artists,  poets,  and  the  clergy. 


On  the  point  of  knowing  when  we  arc  disagreeable, 
our  human  nature  is  fallible.  Our  lavender-water, 
our  smiles,  our  compliment:-*,  and  other  polite  falsities, 
are  constantly  offensive,  when  in  the  very  nature  of 
tin-in  they  can  only  be  meant  to  attract  admiration 
ami  regard. 


All  knowledge  which  alters  our  lives  penetrates  us 
more  when  it  comes  in  the  early  morning:  (he  day 
tlnit  has  to  be  travelled  with  something  new  and  per- 
haps forever  sad  in  its  light,  is  an  image  of  the  life 
thai,  spreads  beyond.  But  at  night  the  time  of  rest  is 
near. 


Blows  arc  sarcasms  turned  stupid  :  wit  is  a  form  of 
force  that  leaves  the  limbs  at  rest. 


17G  FELIX  IIOI.T. 

very  fond  of  their  own  persons  and  lives,  are  not  at 
all  devoted  to  the  Maker  tliev  believe  in. 


Xatnrc  never  makes  men  who  are  at  once  energet- 
ically sympathetic  and  minutely  calculating. 


Express  confessions  give  definite-ness  to  memories 
that  might  more  easilv  melt  away  without  them. 


Questions  of  origination  in  stirring  periods  are  no- 
toriously hard  to  settle.  It  is  by  no  means  neces- 
sary in  human  things  that  there  should  be  only  one 
begiuuer. 


To  be  right  in  great  memorable  moments,  is  perhaps 
the  thing  we  need  most  desire  for  ourselves. 


"What  we  call  illusions  arc1  often,  in  truth,  a  wider 
vision  of  past  and  present,  realities  —  a  willing  move- 
ment of  a  man's  soul  with  the  larger  sweep  of  the 
•world's  forces  —  a  movement  towards  a  more  assured 
end  than  the  chances  of  a  single  life.  We  >ee  human 
heroism  broken  into  units  and  say,  this  unit  did  little 
—  niiu'ht  as  well  not  have  been.  .IJut  in  this  way  we 
migh'  break  up  a  irreat  army  into  units:  in  Ihis  way 
we  might  break  ihe  sunlight  into  fragment,  and  i!ii:,k 
th:;t  this  and  the  other  i;;igh;  be  eiieaply  parted  \vi;!i. 
].••'.  !i-  riither  raise  a  monument  to  ihe  soldi  rs  wh  >-c 
brave  hearts  only  kept  the  1'anks  i:;:br<>keii,  and  met 
dea:h  —  a  monument  to  tlie  fai:  hful  who  were  not 
famous,  and  who  are  precious  as  the  eontinuily  of  the 


FELIX  HOLT.  177 

sunbeams  is  precious,  though  some  of  them  fall  un- 
seeii  and  on  barrenness. 


31. —  It  was  but  yesterday  yon  spoke  him  well  — 
You've  changed  your  mind  so  soon? 

K—  XotI  —  'tis  he 

That,  changing  to  my  thought,  has  changed  my 

mind. 

No  man  puts  rotten  apples  in  his  pouch 
Because  their  upper  side  looks  fair  to  him. 
Constancy  in  mistake  is  constant  folly.11 


Oh,  sir,  'twas  that  mixture  of  spite  and  OA'cr-fed 
merriment  which  passes  for  humor  with  the  vulgar. 
In  their  fun  they  have  much  resemblance  to  a  turkey- 
cock.  It  has  a  cruel  beak,  and  a  silly  iteration  of 
ugly  sounds;  it  spreads  its  tail  in  self-glorification, 
but  shows  you  the  wrong  side  of  that  ornament  — 
liking  admiration,  but  knowing  not  what  is  admir- 
able.11 


It  is  a  good  and  soothfast  saw ; 
Half  roasted  never  will  be  raw; 
Xo  dough  is  dried  once  more  to  meal, 
IS'o  crock  ncw-shapcn  by  Ihe  wheel; 
Yon  can't  turn  curds  to  milk  again, 
Nor  Xow,  by  wishing,  back  to  Then; 
And  having  tasted  stolen  honey, 
You  can't  buy  innocence  for  money.11 


Tis  grievous,  that  with  all  amplification  of  travel 


178  FKI.1X  HOLT. 

both  by  sea  and  hind,  :i  man  can  never  separate  him- 
seli'  IVoin  his  past  history.11 

Xo  man  believes  that  many-textured  knowledge  and 
skill  —  as  a  just  idea  of  the  solar  system,  or  the  power 
of  painting' tlesh,  or  of  reading  written  harmonies — 
can  come  late  and  of  a  sudden:  yet  many  will  not 
stick  at  believing  that  happiness  can  come  at  any  day 
and  hour  solely  by  a  new  disposition  of  events  ;  though 
there  is  nought  less  capable  of  a  magical  production 
than  a  mortal's  happiness,  which  is  mainly  a  complex 
of  habitual  relations  mid  dispositions  not  to  be  wrought 
by  news  from  foreign  parts,  or  any  whirling  of  Tor- 
tune's  wheel  for  one  on  whose  brow  Time  has  written 
legibly." 


The  devil  tempts  us  not—  'tis  we  tempt  him, 
Beckoning  his  skill  wiih  opportunity.11 


I'll  tell  you  what's  the  greatest  power  under  heaven, 
and  that  is  public  opinion  —  the  ruling  belief  in  society 
about  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong,  what,  is  honor- 
able and  what  is  shameful.  .  .  .  llo\v  can  polit- 
ical freedom  make  us  better,  any  more  than  a  religion 
we  don't,  believe  in,  it'  people  laugh  and  win!;  \\iien 
Hey  see  men  abuse  and  delile  it  ?  And  while  public 
opinion  is  whai  it  is  —  while  nu-n  have  no  be!  ter  beiiel's 
about  public  duty  —  while  corruption  is  not  fi-li  tube 
a  damning  disgrace'  —  while  men  are  im!  ashamed  i:i 
Parliament  and  out  of  it  to  make  public  (juoiion.s 
which  concern  the  welfare  of  millions  a  mere  screen 


FELIX  HOLT.  17!) 

for  their  own  petty  private  ends.  —  I  say  no  fresh 
scheme,  of  voting  will  much  mend  our  condition.  Tor. 
take  us  working  men  of  all  sorts.  Suppose  out.  of  every 
hundred  who  had  a  vote  there  were  thirty  who  had 
some  .soberness,  some  sense  to  choose  with,  some  good 
feeling  to  make  them  wish  the  right  thing  for  all. 
And  suppose  there  were  seventy  out  of  the  hundred 
who  were,  half  of  them,  not  sober,  who  had  no  sense 
to  choose  one  thing  in  politics  more  than  another,  and 
who  had  so  little  good  feeling  in  them  that  they  wasted 
on  their  own  drinking  the  money  that  should  have 
helped  to  feed  and  clothe  their  wives  and  children; 
and  another  half  of  them  who,  if  they  didn't  drink, 
were  too  ignorant  or  mean  or  stupid  to  see  any  good 
for  themselves  better  than  pocketing  a  live-shilling 
piece  when  it  was  offered  them.  "Where  would  be  the 
political  power  of  the  thirty  sober  men?  The  power 
would  lie  with  the  seventy  drunken  and  stupid  votes.1 


"Where's  the  good  of  pulling  at  such  a  tangled  skein 
as  this  electioneering  trickery?  As  long  as  three- 
fourihs  of  the  men  in  this  country  sec  nothing  in  an 
election  but  sell-interest,  and  nothing  in  soil-interest 
but  some  form  of  greed,  one  might  as  well  try  to  purify 
the  proceedings  of  the  ll>hes,  and  say  to  a  hungry  cod- 
ti  h  —  -'My  good  friend,  abstain;  don't  goggle  your 
eyes  so,  or  show  such  a  stupid  gluttonous  mouth,  or 
think  the  lit  lie  fishes  are  worth  nothing  except  in  rela- 
tion to  your  own  inside."  ILe'd  be  open  to  no  argu- 
ment short  of  crimping  him.1 


180  FELIX  HOLT. 

This  world  is  not  a  very  fine  place  for  a  good  many 
of  the  people  in  it.  lint  I've  made  up  my  mind  it 
slia'ii'l  be  the  worse  firm-',  if  I  can  help  it.  They  may 
tell  me  I  can't  alter  the  world  —  that  there  must  lie  a 
certain  number  of  sneaks  and  robbers  in  it,  and  it'  I 
don't  lie  and  filch  somebody  else  will.  Weil,  then, 
somebody  else  .shall,  for  i  won't.1 


The  fact  is,  there  are  not  many  easy  lots  to  be  drawn 
in  the  world  at  present;  and  such  as  they  are  I  am 
not  envious  of  them.  I  don't  >uy  life  is  not  worth 
having  :  it  is  worth  having  to  a  man  who  has  some 
sparks  of  sense  and  feeling  and  bravery  in  him.  And 
the  finest  fellow  of  all  would  be  the  one  who  could  be 
glad  to  have  lived  because  the  world  was  chielly  mis- 
erable, and  his  life  had  come  to  help  soric  one  who 
needed  it.  lie  would  be  the  man  who  hail  the  most 
powers  and  the  fewest  selfish  wants.  Ikit  I'm  not  up 
to  the  level  of  what  I  see  to  be  best.1 


I  would  never  choose  to  withdraw  myself  from  the 
labor  and  common  burden  of  the  world;  but  1  do 
choose  to  withdraw  my>elf  from  the  push  and  the 
scramble  for  money  and  position.  Any  man  is  at 
liberty  to  call  me  a  fool,  and  say  that  mankind  are 
benefited  by  the  pu-h  and  the  sera::.:/!-'  in  the  I;>I:L> 
r;m.  Ii;;t  I  care  for  the  penpii>  who  live  n<>\v  and  \\ill 
not  be  living  when  the  long-run  comes.  A>  it  i>,  1  pre- 
fer going  .shares  with  the  unlucky.1 


Thousands,  of  men  have  wedded  poverty  because  they 


PEL  IX  II OL  T.  181 

expect  to  go  to  heaven  for  it;  I  don't  cxpeet  to  go  to 
heaven  lor  it,  but  I  wed  it  because  it  enables  me  to 
do  what  I  most  want  to  do  on  earth.  "Whatever  the 
hopes  for  the  world  nun*  be — whether  great  or  small 
—  I  am  a  man  of  this  generation;  I  will  try  to  make 
life  less  bitter  for  a  few  within  my  reaeh.  It  is  held 
reasonable  enough  to  toil  for  the  fortunes  of  a  family, 
though  it  may  turn  to  imbecility  in  Ihe  third  genera- 
tion. I  choose  a  family  with  more  chances  in  it.1 


It  is  just  because  I'm  a  very  ambitious  fellow,  with 
very  hungry  passions,  wanting  a  great  deal  to  satisfy 
me,  that  1  have  chosen  to  give  up  what  people  call 
worldly  good.  At  least  that  lias  been  one  determining 
reason.  It  all  depends  on  what  a  man  gets  into  his 
consciousness  —  what  life  thrusts  into  his  mind,  so  that 
it  becomes  present  to  him  as  remorse  is  present  to  the 
guilty,  or  a  mechanic;',!  problem  to  an  inventive  genius. 
There  are  two  things  I've  got  present  in  that  way  :  one 
of  them  is  the  picture,  of  what  I  should  hale  to  be. 
I'm  determined  never  to  go  about  making  my  face  sim- 
pering or  solemn,  and  telling  professional  lies  for 
proiil  ;  or  to  gel  (angled  in  aii'airs  where  I  must  wink 
at.  dishonesty  and  pocket  the  proceeds,  and  justify  that 
knavery  as  part  of  a  system  that  I  can't  alter.  If  I 
once  went  into  that  sort  of  struggle  for  success,  I 
should  want  to  win  —  I  should  defend  the  wrong  that 
I  had  once  identified  myself  wii.Ii.  I  should  become 
every!  ifmg  that  I  sec  now  beforehand  to  be  detestable. 
And  what's  more,  I  should  do  this,  as  men  are  doing  it 
every  day,  for  a  ridiculously  small  prize  —  perhaps  for 


FELIX  IWLT. 


I'm  proof  against  that  word  failure.  I've  seen  behind 
it.  The  only  failure  a  man  ought  to  fear  is  failure  in 
cleaving  to  tlie  purpose  he  sees  to  be  best.  As  to  ji;>t 
til;,1  amount  of  re.-ult  lie  may  see  iVom  his  particular 
work  —  that's  a  tremendous  uncertainty :  the  unive  so 
has  not  been  arranged  for  (lie.  gratification  of  his  feel- 
ings. As  long  as  a  man  sees  and  believes  in  some 
great  good,  he'll  prefer  working  towards  that  in  the 
way  he's  best  fit  for,  come  what  may.  I  put  (.  tl'ects  at 
their  minimum,  but  I'd  rather  have  the  minimum  of 
c  ll'ect.  if  it'.s  of  the  sort  I  care  for,  than  the  maximum 
of  clfect  I  don't  care  for — a  lot  of  line  thing-;  that  arc 
not  to  my  taste  —  and  if  they  were,  the  conditions  of 
holding  l hem  while  the  world  is  what  it  is,  are  such  :is 
Would  jar  on  me  like  grating  metal.1 


I  -hould  say,  teach  any  truth  you  can.  whether  it's 
in  the  Testament  or  out  of  it.  It's  little  enough  any- 
body can  get  hold  of.  and  >;ill  le-s  what  he  can  drive, 
into  the  >kulls  of  a  pcnrr-conniiu'_c.  parcel-tying  gen- 
eration, such  as  mostly  till  your  chapels.' 


FELIX  HOLT.  183 


A  line  lady  is  a  squirrel-headed  thing-,  with  small 
airs,  and  small  notions,  about  as  applicable  1o  the 
business  of  life  as  a  pair  of  tweezers  to  the  clearing 
of  a  forest.1 


I  can't  bear  to  see  you  ^oiny  the  way  of  (ho  foolish 
women  who  spoil  men's  lives.  Men  can't  help  loving 
them,  and  so  they  make  themselves  slaves  to  the  petty 
desires  of  petty  creatures.  Thai's  the  way  those  who 
iniu'hi  do  better  spend  their  lives  for  nought  —  i.r<'t 
cheeked  in  every  ^reat  dibit  —  toil  with  brain  and  limb 
for  things  l.hat  have  no  more  to  do  with  a  manly  life; 
than  tarts  and  confectionery.  That's  what  makes 
women  a  curse  :  all  life  is  stunted  to  suit  their  little- 
ness. That's  while  I'll  never  love,  if  I  can  help  it; 
and  il'  I  love,  I'll  bear  it,  and  never  marry.1 


I  wonder  whether  the  subtle  measuring  of  forces 
will  ever  come  to  mea<urin;>-  the  force  there  would  be 
in  one  beautiful  woman  whose  mind  was  as  noble  as 
her  face  was  beautiful  —  who  made  a  man's  passion 
for  her  rush  in  one  current,  with  all  the  threat  aims  of 
his  life.1 


LSI  FELIX  HOLT. 

icent  activity.  That's  what  your  favorite  gentlemen 
do,  of  the  Byronic-bilious  style. 

Extlicr. — 1  don't  admit  that  those  are  my  favorite 
gentlemen. 

F<  li.r.  —  I've  heard  yon  defend  ttiem  —  gentlemen  like 
j-our  Iicnes,  who  have  no  pariieular  talent  for  the  finite, 
but  a  general  sense  that  the  intinire  is  the  right  tiling 
for  them.  They  miu'it  as  well  boast  of  nausea  as  a 
proof  of  a  strong  inside.1 


I  reverence  the  law,  but  not  where  it  is  a  pretext  for 
wrong,  which  it  should  be  the  very  object  of  law  to 
hinder.  ...  I  hold  it  blasphemy  to  say  that  a  man 
ought  not  to  tight  against  authority:  there  is  no  great 
religion  and  no  great  freedom  that  has  not  done  it,  in. 
the  beginning.1 


I  have  had  much  puerile  blame  cast  upon  me,  be- 
cause1 I  have  uttered  such  names  as  Brougham  and 
"Wellington  in  the  pulpit.  V\"hy  not  "Wellington  as 
well  a>  Rabshakeh'/  and  why  not  Ilrongham  as  well  as 
Balaam1/  Docs  God  know  less  of  men  than  lie  did 
in  the  days  of  llcx.ekiah  and  Moses'/  —  is  His  arm 
shortened,  and  is  the  world  become  too  wide  for  His 
providence'/ '" 


"And  all  the  people  said.  Amen."  .  .  .  My  brethren, 
do  you  think  that  great  shout  wa^  r;i:-ed  in  I-rael  by 
each  man's  waiiing  to  say  "amen"  iill  his  neighbors 
had  said  amen'/  Do  you  think  there  will  ever  In:  a 
great  shout  for  the  right  —  the  shout  of  a  nation  as  of 


FELIX  HOLT.  185 

one  man,  rounded  and  whole,  like  the  voice  of  the 
archangel  that  bound  together  all  the  listeners  of  earth 
and  heaven  —  if  every  Christian  of  you  peeps  round  to 
see  what  his  neighbors  in  good  coats  are  doing,  or  else 
puts  his  hat  before  his  face  that  he  may  shout  and 
never  be  heard?  But  this  is  what  you  do :  when  the 
servant  of  God  stands  up  to  deliver  his  message,  do 
you  lay  your  souls  beneath  the  Word  as  you  set  out 
your  plants  beneath  the  falling  rain?  No;  one  of  you 
sends  his  eyes  to  all  corners,  he  smothers  his  soul  with 
small  questions,  "  What  does  brother  Y.  think?"  "Is 
this  doctrine  high  enough  for  brother  Z.  ?  "  "  Will  the 
church  members  be  pleased? "  3 


riay  not  with  paradoxes.  That  caustic  which  you 
handle  in  order  to  scorch  others,  may  happen  to  sear 
your  own  fingers,  and  make  them  dead  to  the  quality 
of  things.  'Tis  difficult  enough  to  sec  our  way  and 
keep  our  torch  steady  in  this  dim  labyrinth  :  to  whirl 
the  torch  and  daz/le  the  eyes  of  our  fellow-seekers  is 
a  poor  daring,  and  may  end  in  total  darkness.2 


Esther.  —  This  will  not  be  a  grief  to  you,  I  hope, 
father?  You  think  it  is  better  that  I  should  go? 

Ii'itfus.  —  Xay,  child,  I  am  weak.  But  I  would  fain 
be  capable  of  a  joy  quite  apart  from  the  accidents  of 
my  aged  earthly  existence,  which,  indeed,  is  a  petty 
and  almost  dried-up  fountain  —  whereas  to  the  recep- 
tive soul  the  river  of  life  pauseth  not,  nor  is  dimin- 
ished.2 


186  FELIX  HOLT. 

Truly,  the  uncertainty  of  things  is  a  text  rather  loo 
wide  and  obvious  for  fruitful  application;  and  to  dis- 
course of  it  is,  as  one  may  say,  to  bottle  up  the  air, 
and  make  a  present  of  it  to  those  who  are  already 
standing  out  of  doors. - 


The  Lord  knoweth  them  that  arc  His;  but  we  —  we 
are  left  to  judge  by  uncertain  signs,  that  so  we  may 
learn  to  exercise  hope  and  faith  towards  one  another; 
and  in  this  uncertainty  I  cling  with  awful  hope  to 
those  whom  the  world  loves  not  because  their  con- 
science, albeit  mistakenly,  is  at  war  with  the  habits  of 
the  world.  Our  great  faith,  my  Esther,  is  the  faith  of 
martyrs:  I  will  not  lightly  turn  away  from  any  man 
\vhoendures  harshness  because  he  will  not  lie;  nay, 
though  I  would  not  wantonly  grasp  at  ease  of  mind 
through  an  arbitrary  choice  of  doctrine.  I  cannot  but 
believe  that  the  merits  of  the  Divine  Sacriiice  are 
wider  than  our  utmost  charity.  I  once  believed  other- 
wise —  but  not  now,  not  now.a 


I  say  not  that  compromise  is  unnecessary,  but  it  is 
an  evil  attendant  on  our  imperfection;  and  I  would 
pray  every  one  to  mark  that,  where  compromise 
broadens,  intellect  and  conscience  are  thru>t  into  nar- 
rower room.- 


L'ttlhn:  —  But   that   must   be   the   best   life,    father. 
That  must  be  the  best  life. 

linntx.  —  What  life,  my  dear  child? 

L'.it/n:): — Why,  that  where  one  bears  and  does  every- 


FELIX  HOLT.  187 

thing  because  of  some  great  and  strong  feeling  —  so 
that  tills  and  that  in  one's  circumstances  don't  signify. 
llufus.  —  Yea,  verity  :  but  the  feeling  that  should  be 
thus  supreme  is  devotcdness  to  the  Divine  Will.2 


Even  as  in  music,  where  all  obey  aud  concur  to  one 
end,  so  that  each  has  the  joy  of  contributing  to  a  whole 
whereby  he  is  ravished  and  lifted  up  into  the  courts  of 
heaven,  so  will  it  be  in  that  crowning  time  of  the  mil- 
lennial reign,  when  our  daily  prayer  will  be  fulfilled, 
and  one  law  shall  be  written  on  all  hearts,  and  be  the 
very  structure  of  all  thought,  and  be  the  principle  of 
all  action.2 


The  very  truth  hath  a  color  from  the  disposition  of 
the  uttcrer.3 


Whore  a  great  weight  has  to  be  moved,  we  require 
not  so  much  selected  instruments  as  abundant  horse- 
power.2 


There  arc  many  who  have  helped  to  draw  the  car  of 
Reform,  whose  ends  are  but  partial,  and  who  forsake 
not  the  ungodly  principle  of  selfish  alliances,  but  would 
only  substitute  Syria  for  Egypt  —  thinking  chiefly  of 
their  own  share  in  peacocks,  gold,  and  ivory.2 


The  mind  that  is  too  ready  at  contempt  and  rcpro- 


188  Fl-LIX  HOLT. 

batiou  is,  I  may  say,  as  a  clenched  fist  that  can  give 
blows,  but  is  shut  up  from  receiving  and  hold  ing  a  light 
that  is  precious  — though  it  vyere  heaven-sent  manna.2 


"Tis  a  great  and  mysterious  gift,  this  clinging  of  the 
heart,  my  Esther,  whereby  it  hath  often  seemed  to  me 
that  even  in  the  very  moment  of  suffering  our  souls 
have  the  keenest  foretaste  of  heaven.  I  speak  not 
lightly,  but  as  one  who  hath  endured.  And  'tis  a 
strange  truth  that  only  in  the  agony  of  parting  we  look 
into  the  depths  of  love.2 


As  for  being  saved  without  works,  there's  a  many,  I 
daresay,  can't  do  without  that  doctrine;  but  I  thank 
the  Lord  I  never  needed  to  put  ?/;>/self  on  a  level  with 
the  thief  on  the  cross.  I've  done  my  duty,  and  more, 
if  anybody  comes  to  that;  for  I  've  gone  without  my  bit 
of  meat  to  make  broth  for  a  sick  neighbor:  and  if 
there's  any  of  the  church  members  say  they've  done 
the  same,  I'd  ask  them  if  they  had  the  sinking  at 
the  stomach  as  I  have;  for  I've  ever  strove  to  do  the 
right  thing,  and  more,  for  good-natured  I  always  was.3 


Your  trouble's  easy  borne  when  everybody  gives  it 
a  lift  for  vou.3 


"When  you've  been  used  to  doing  thing-;,  and  they've 
been  taken  away  from  you,  it's  as  if  your  hands  had 
been  cut  oil',  and  you  IV It  the  lingers  a->  are  of  no  usu 
to  vou.1 


FELIX  HOLT.  189 

I  look  upon  it,  life  is  like  our  game  at  whist,  when 
Banks  and  his  wife  conic  to  the  still-room  of  an  even- 
ing. I  don't  enjoy  the  game  much,  but  I  like  to  play 
my  cards  well,  and  see  what  will  be  the  end  of  it.4 


Why,  if  I've  only  got  some  orange  flowers  to  candy, 
I  shouldn't  like  to  die  till  I  sec  them  all  right.4 


I  would  change  with  nobody,  madam.  And  if  troubles 
were  put  up  to  market,  I  'd  sooner  buy  old  than  new. 
It's  something  to  have  seen  the  worst.4 


Well,  madam,  put  a  good  face  on  it,  and  don't  seem 
to  be  on  the  look-out  for  crows,  else  you'll  set  other 
people  walching.4 


When  I  awake  at  cock-crow,  I'd  sooner  have  one 
real  grief  on  my  mind  than  twenty  false.  It's  better 
to  know  one's  robbed  than  to  think  one's  going  to  be 
murdered.4 


There's  a  fine  presence  about  Mr.  Harold.  I  re- 
member you  used  to  say,  madam,  there  were  some 
people  you  would  always  know  were  in  the  room 
though  they  stood  round  a  corner,  and  others  you 
might  never  see  till  you  ran  against  them.  That's  as 
true  as  truth.4 


If  a  man's  got  a  bit  of  property,  a  stake  in  the  a 


try,   he'll  want  to   keep   things  square 


isn't  safe,  Tom's  in  danger. 


100  FELIX  HOLT. 

If  a  nag  is  to  throw  me,  I  say  let  him  have  some 
blood.5 


I've  seen  it  again  and  again.  If  a  man  takes  to 
tongue-work  it's  all  over  witli  him.  "Everything's 
wrong,"  says  he.  That's  a  big  text.  But  does  he  want 
to  make  everything  right?  Not  he.  He'd  lose  his 
text.  "  "\Vc  want  every  man's  good,"  say  they.  "Why, 
they  never  knew  yet  what  a  man's  good  is.  How 
should  they?  It's  working  for  his  victual  —  not  get- 
ting a  slice  of  other  people's.5 


Putt}'  has  said  to  me,  "  Johnson,  bear  in  mind  there 
are  two  Avays  of  speaking  an  audience  will  always  like  : 
one  is,  to  tell  them  what  they  don't  understand;  and 
the.  other  is,  to  tell  them  what  they're  used  to."  I 
shall  never  be  the  man  to  deny  that  I  owe  a  great  deal 
to  Putty.6 


A  man  who  puts  a  non-natural  strained  sense  on  a 
promise  is  no  better  than  a  robber.7 


I'm  no  fool  myself:  I'm  forced  to  wink  a  good  deal, 
for  fear  of  seeing  too  much,  for  a  neighborly  man  must 
let  himself  be  cheated  a  little.3 


None  o'  your  shooting  for  m< — ii's  two  to  one 
you'll  miss.  Snaring 's  more  iKliing-likr.  You  bait 
your  hook,  and  if  it  isna  the  fishes'  good-will  to  come, 
lhai's  nothing  again'  the  sporting  genelinan.  And 
that's  what  I  say  bv  .snaring.9 


FELIX  HOLT.  191 

I  think  half  those  priggish  maxims  about  human 
nature  in  the  lump  are  no  more  to  be  relied  on  than 
universal  remedies.  There  are  different  sorts  of  hu- 
man nature.  Some  arc  given  to  discontent  and  long- 
ing, others  to  securing  and  enjoying.  And  let  me  tell 
you,  the  discontented  longing  style  is  unpleasant  to 
live  with.10 


It  is  difficult  for  a  woman  ever  to  try  to  be  anything 
good  when  she  is  not  believed  in  —  when  it  is  always 
supposed  that  she  must  be  contemptible.12 


One  likes  a  "beyond"  everywhere.1 


END   OF   "PELIX  HOLT." 


MIDDLEMAROH. 

(193) 


MIDDLEMAECH. 


MANXEKS  must  be  very  marked  indeed  before  they 
cease  to  be  interpreted  by  pre-conceptions  either  con- 
fident or  distrustful. 


A  man's  mind  —  what  thei'e  is  of  it  —  has  always  the 
advantage  of  being  masculine,  as  the  smallest  birch- 
tree  is  of  a  higher  kind  than  the  most  soaring  palm, 
and  even  his  ignorance  is  of  a  sounder  quality.  Sir 
James  might  not  have  originated  this  estimate ;  but  a 
kind  Providence  furnishes  the  limpest  personality  Avith 
a  little  gum  or  starch  in  the  form  of  tradition. 


Sometimes,  indeed,  Celia  had  reflected  that  Dodo 
would  perhaps  not  make  a  husband  happy  who  had  not 
her  way  of  looking  at  things ;  and  stilled  in  the  depths 
of  her  heart  was  the  feeling  that  her  sister  was  too  re- 
ligious for  family  comfort.  Notions  and  scruples  were 
like  spilled  needles,  making  one  afraid  of  treading,  or 
sitting  down,  or  even  eating. 


Here  was  a  man  whose  learning  almost  amounted  to 
a  proof  of  whatever  he  believed  ! 

Dorothea's  inferences  may  seem  large;  but  really 
life  could  never  have  gone  on  at  any  period  but  for 
(195) 


196  MIDDLE  MA  U  CII. 

tliis  liberal  allowance  of  conclusion-;,  which  has  facil- 
itated  marriage  under  (lie  diHicnliies  of  civilization. 
lias  any  one  ever  pinched  into  its  pilnloiis  smallness 
the  cobweb  of  pre-matrimonial  acquaintanceship? 


Dorothea  by  this  time  had  looked  deep  into  the  un- 
gangcd  reservoir  of  Mr.  Casaubon's  mind,  seeing  re- 
flected there  in  vague  labyrinthine  extension  every 
quality  she  herself  brought. 


Signs  are  small,  measurable  things,  but  interpreta- 
tions are  illimitable,  and  in  girls  of  sweet,  ardent 
nature,  every  sign  is  apt  to  conjure  tip  wonder,  hope, 
belief,  vast  as  a  sky,  and  colored  by  a  diffused  thimble- 
ful of  matter  in  the  shape  of  knowledge.  They  are 
not  always  too  grossly  deceived:  for  Shidbad  himself 
may  have  fallen  by  good  luck  on  a  true  description, 
and  wrong  reasoning  sometimes  lands  poor  mortals  in 
right  conclusions:  starting  a  long  way  off  the  true 
point,  and  proceeding  by  loops  and  x.igx.ags.  we  now 
and  then  arrive  just  where  we  ought  to  be. 


With  some  endowment  of  stupidity  and  conceit, 
Dorothea  might  have  thought  that  a  Christian  young 
lady  of  fortune  should  should  lind  her  ideal  of  life  ia 
village  charities,  patronage  of  the  humbler  clergv.  tho 
perusal  of  ••  Female  Scripture  Character-;,"  iiiii'  >ldir,g 
the  private  experience  of  Sara  under  the  old  DNpen- 
satiuit.  and  Dorcas  under  the  New.  and  the  can1  of  her 
soul  over  her  embroidery  in  her  o\vn  boudoir  —  with  a 
background  of  prospective  marriage  to  a  man  who,  if 


MI  DDL  EJfA  RCH.  197 

less  strict  than  herself,  as  being  involved  in  affairs  re- 
ligiously inexplicable,  might  be  prayed  for  and  sea- 
sonably exhorted. 


On  safe  opportunities  Celia  had  an  indirect  mode  of 
making  her  negative  wisdom  tell  upon  Dorothea,  and 
calling  her  down  from  her  rhapsodic  mood  by  remind- 
ing her  that  people  were  staring,  not  listening. 


Mr.  Casaubon  seemed  even  unconscious  that  triv- 
ialities existed,  and  never  handed  around  that  small- 
talk  of  heavy  men  which  is  as  acceptable  as  stale  bride- 
cake brought  forth  with  an  odor  of  cupboard. 


She  pinched  Celia's  chin,  being  in  the  mood  now  to 
Ih ink  her  very  winning  and  lovely  —  fit  hereafter  to  be 
an  eternal  cherub,  and  if  it  were  not  doct.rinally  wrong 
to  say  so,  hardly  more  in  need  of  salvation  than  a 
squirrel. 


Mr  T'rooko  wondered,  and  felt  that  women  were  an 
inexhaustible  subject  of  study,  since  even  he,  at  his 
age,  was  not  in  a  perfect  state  of  scientific  prediction 
about  them. 


All  Dorothea's  passion  was  transfused  through  a 
mind  struggling  toward  an  ideallife;  the  radiance  of 
IUT  transfigured  girlhood  fell  on  the  first  object  that 
came  within  its  level. 


It  had   been  Celia's   nature  when  a  child  never  to 


108 


quarrel  with  any  one  •  —  only  to  observe  with  wonder 
that  they  quarrelled  with  her.  and  looked  like  turkey- 
cocks  ;  whereupon  >he  was  ready  to  play  at  eat's-cradle 
with  them  whenever  they  recovered,  themselves. 


Mr.  Casaubon  was  being  unconsciously  wrought 
upon  by  the  charms  of  a  nature  which  was  entirely 
without  hidden  calculations  either  for  immediate  ef 
fccts  or  for  remoter  ends. 


Such  a  lady  gave  a  neighborliness  to  both  rank  and 
religion,  and  mitigated  the  bitterness  of  uncommuted 
tithe.  A  much  more  exemplary  character  with  an  in- 
fusion of  sour  dignity  would  not  have  furthered  their 
comprehension  of  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  and  would 
have  been  less  socially  uniting. 


Even  with  a  microscope  directed  on  a  water-drop 
we  lind  ourselves  making  interpretations  which  turn 
out  to  be  rather  coarse;  for  whereas  under  a  weak  lens 
yon  may  seem  to  see  a  creature  exhibiting  an  active, 
voracity  into  which  other  smaller  creatures  actively 
play  as  if  they  were  so  many  animated  tax-pennies,  a 
stronger  lens  reveals  to  you  certain  tiniest  hairlets 
which  make  vortices  \',,r  the>c  victims  while  the  swal- 
lower  waits  passively  at  his  receipt  of  custom.  In  this 
way,  metaphorie;dly  speaking,  a  strong  h-ns  applied  '.  > 
Mrs.  Cadwallader's  match-making  will  show  a  play  o! 
minute  causes  producing  what  may  be  called  thought 
and  speech  vortices  to  bring  her  the  sort  <,f  food  she 
ueeded.  ***** 


MIDDLEXARCir.  199 

Her  feeling  toward  the  vulgar  rich  was  a  sort  of  re- 
ligious hatred  :  they  had  probably  made  all  their  money 
out  of  high  retail  prices,  and  Mrs.  Cadwallader  detested 
high  prices  for  everything  that  was  not  paid  in  kind 
at  the  Kectory  :  such  people  were  no  part  of  God's  de- 
sign in  making  the  world;  and  their  accent  was  an 
afiiiction  to  the  ears.  A  town  where  such  monsters 
abounded  was  hardly  more  than  a  sort  of  low  comedy, 
which  could  not  be  taken  account  of  in  a  well-bred 
scheme  of  the  universe.  Let  any  lady  who  is  inclined 
to  be  hard  on  Mrs.  Cadwallader  inquire  into  the  com- 
prehensiveness of  her  own  beautiful  views,  and  be 
quite  sure  that,  they  afford  accommodation  for  all  the 
lives  which  have  the  honor  to  coexist  with  hers. 


She  was  the  diplomatist  of  Tipt on  and  Freshitt,  and  for 
anything  to  happen  in  spite  of  her  vv'as  an  offensive 
irregularity. 


"We  mortals,  men  and  women,  devour  many  a  disap- 
pointment between  breakfast  and  dinner-time;  keep 
Lack  the  tears  and  look  a  little  pale  about  the  lips,  and 
in  answer  to  inquiries  say,  <;()h,  nothing!  "  Pride  helps 
us ;  and  pride  is  not  a  bad  thing  when  it  only  urges  us 
to  hide  our  own  hurts  — not  to  hurt  others. 


To  have  in  general  but  little  feeling  seems  to  be  the 
only  security  against  feeling  too  much  oil  any  partic- 
ular occasion. 


200  MIDDLEMAIiCn. 

Pride  only  helps  us  to  be  sonorous  ;  it  never  makes 
us  so,  any  more  than  vanity  will  help  us  to  be  witty. 


The  building,  of  greenish  stone,  was  in  the  old  Eng- 
lish style,  not  ugly,  but  small-windowed  and  melan- 
choly looking:  the  sort  of  house  lliat  must  have 
children,  many  flowers,  open  windows,  and  little  vistas 
of  bright  things  to  make  it  seem  a  joyous  home. 


Certainly  the  mistakes  that  we  male  and  female  mor- 
tals make  when  we  have  our  own  way  might  fairly 
raise  some  wonder  that  we  are  so  fond  of  it. 


Dorothea  filled  up  all  blanks  with  nnmanifestcd  per- 
fections, interpreting  him  as  she  interpreted  the  works 
of  Providence,  and  accounting  for  seeming  discords  by 
her  own  deafness  to  the  higher  harmonies.  And  there 
are  many  blanks  left,  in  the  weeks  of  courtship,  which 
a  loving  faith  tills  with  happy  assurance. 

"\Vc  know  what  a  masquerade  all  development  is,  and 
what  effective  shapes  may  be  disguised  in  helpless 
embryos.  In  fact,  the  world  is  full  of  hopeful  anal- 
ogies and  handsome,  dubious  eggs,  called  possibilities. 


Among  all  forms  of  mistake,  prophecy  is  the  most 
gratuitous. 


I  am  not  sure  that,  the  greatest  man  of  his  age.  if 
ever  that  solitary  superlative  existed,  could  escape 
unfavorable  relied  ions  of  himself  in  various  small 
mirrors ;  and  even  Milton,  looking  for  his  portrait  Lu  a 


201 

spoon,   must  submit  to  have   the   facial  angle   of   a 
bumpkin. 


Suppose  we  turn  from  outside  estimates  of  a  man, 
to  wonder,  with  keener  interest,  what  i.s  the  report  of 
his  own  consciousness  about  his  doings  or  capacity: 
with  what  hindrances  he  is  carrying  on  his  daily 
labors  ;  what  fading  of  hones,  or  what  deeper  fixity  of 
self-delusion  1he  years  are  marking  off  within  him;  and 
with  what  spirit  lie  wrestles  against  universal  pres- 
sure, which  will  one  day  be  too  heavy  for  him,  and 
bring  his  heart  to  its  final  pause.  Doubtless  his  lot  is 
important  in  his  own  eyes  ;  and  the  chief  reason  that 
we  think  he  asks  too  large  a  place  in  our  consideration 
inust  be  our  want  of  room  for  him,  since  we  refer  him 
to  the  Divine  regard  with  perfect  confidence ;  nay,  it 
is  even  held  sublime  for  our  neighbor  to  expect  the 
utmost  there,  however  little  he  may  have  got  from  us. 
Mr.  Casnubon,  too,  was  the  centre  of  his  own  world; 
if  he  was  liable  to  think  that  others  were  providentially 
made  for  him.  and  especially  to  consider  them  in  the 
light  of  their  fitness  for  the  author  of  a  "  Key  to  all 
Mythologies,"  this  trait  is  not  quite  alien  to  us,  and, 
like  the  other  mendicant  hopes  of  mortals,  claims 
some  of  our  pity. 


All  Dorothea's  eagerness  for  acquirement  lay  within, 
that  full  current  of  sympathetic  motive  in  whi'-h  her 
ideas  and  iinpuNcs  were  habitually  s\vcp!  along.  She 
did  not  want  to  deck  herself  with  knowledge  —  to  \vear 
it  loose  from  the  nerves  and  blood  that  fed  her  action; 


202 


Mr.  Lydirafe  had  the  medical  accomplishment  of 
looking  perfectly  irrave  whatever  nonsense  was  talked 
to  him,  ;!iid  his  dark,  steady  eyes  gave  him  impressive- 
ucss  as  a  listeuer. 


When  a  man  has  seen  the  woman  whom  he  would 
have  chosen  if  lie  had  intended  to  marry  speedily,  his 
remaining  a  bachelor  will  usually  depend  on  her  reso- 
lution rather  than  on  his. 


Dorothea  did  not  look  at  lliinirs  from  the  proper 
feminine  aimle.  The  society  of  such  women  was  about. 
a>  relaxing  ;;s  irolnir  from  your  \vorl;  to  teacli  ;!ie  sec- 
ond l':>rm.  insti'iicl  of  reeliniiiLr  in  a  [i;iradi-i'  \vi:  h  s'.'.'i/et 
h'.imlis  for  bird-note-1,  and  Mi!"  eyes  for  a  heaven. 


MIDDLEMARCn.  203 

on  the  indifference  or  the  frozen  stare  with  which  we 
look  at  our  uniiitrodiiced  neighbor.  Destiny  stands 
by  sarcastic  with  our  dramulis  persoiue  folded  in  her 
hand. 


Even  those  neighbors  who  had  called  Peter  Feather- 
stone  an  old  fox  had  never  accused  him  of  being 
insincerely  polite,  and  his  sister  was  quite  used  to  the 
peculiar  absence  of  ceremony  with  which  he  marked 
liis  sense  of  blood-relationship.  Indeed,  she  herself 
was  accustomed  to  think  that  entire  freedom  from  the 
necessity  of  behaving  agreeably  was  included  in  the 
Almighty's  intentions  about  families. 


Every  nerve  and  muscle  in  Rosamond  was  adjusted 
to  the  consciousness  that  she  was  being  looked  at. 
She  was  by  nature  tin  actress  of  parts  that  entered  into 
her  j-Jii/xi'jnn :  she  even  acted  her  own  character,  and 
so  well,  that  she  did  not  know  it  to  be  precisely  her 
own. 


Strangers,  whether  wrecked  and  clinging  to  a  raft, 
or  duly  escorted  and  accompanied  by  portmanteaus, 
have  always  had  a  circumstantial  fascination  for  the 
virgin  mind,  against  which  native  merit  has  urged  it- 
self in  vain. 


204 

One  can  begin  so  many  things  with  a  new  person!  — 
even  begin  to  be  a  better  man. 


Loud  men  called  his  subdued  tone  an  under-tono,  and 
sometimes  implied  that  it,  was  inconsistent  \vith  open- 
ness;  though  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  why  a  loud 
man  should  not  be  given  to  concealment  of  anything 
except  his  own  voice,  'unless  it  can  be  shown  that  Holy 
Writ  has  placed  the  seat  of  candor  in  the  lungs.  Mr. 
Bnlstrode  had  also  a  deferential  bending  attitude  in 
listening,  and  an  apparently  fixed  attentiveness  in  his 
eyes  which  made  those  persons  who  thought  them- 
selves worth  hearing  infer  that  he  was  seeking  the 
utmost  improvement  from  their  discourse.  Others, 
who  expected  to  make  no  great  ligure,  disliked  this 
kind  of  moral  lantern  turned  on  them.  If  yon  are  not 
proud  of  your  cellar,  there  is  no  thrill  of  satisfaction 
in  seeing  your  guest  hold  up  his  wine-glass  to  the  light 
and  look  judicial.  Such  joys  are  reserved  for  con- 
scious merit. 


The  mother's  eyes  are  not  always  deceived  in  their 
partiality:  she  at  least  can  best  judge  who  is  the  ten- 
der, lilial-heancd  child. 


Everybody's  family  doctor  was  remarkably  clever, 
and  was  understood  to  have  immeasurable  skill  in  the 
management  and  training  of  the  most  skittish  or  vic- 
ious discuses.  The  evidence'  of  his  cleverness  was  of 
the  higher  intuitive  order,  lying  in  his  lady  patients' 
immovable  conviction,  and  was  unassailable  by  any 


MIDDLEMARCn.  205 

objection  except  that  their  intuitions  were  opposed  by 
others  equally  strong. 


Ldj'gatc  was  but  scven-and-twcnty,  an  age  at  which 
many  men  are  not  quite  common  —  at  which  they  arc 
hopeful  of  achievement,  resolute  in  avoidance,  think- 
ing that  Mammon  shall  never  put  a  bit  in  their  mouths 
and  get  astride  their  backs,  but  rather  that  Mammon, 
if  they  have  anything  to  do  with  him,  shall  draw  their 
chariot. 

***** 

He  was  one  of  the  rarer  lads  who  early  get  a  decided 
bent,  and  make  up  their  minds  that  there  is  something 
particular  in  life  which  they  would  like  to  do  for  its 
own  sake,  and  not  because  their  fathers  did  it. 


Our  vanities  differ  as  our  noses  do  :  all  conceit  is  not 
the  same  conceit,  but  varies  in  correspondence  with 
the  minutiae  of  mental  make  in  which  one  of  us  diflers 
from  another. 


Does  it  seem  incongruous  to  you  that  a  Middlemarch 
surgeon  should  dream  of  himself  as  a  discoverer? 
Most  of  us,  indeed,  know  little  of  the  great  originators 
until  they  have  been  lifted  up  among  the  constellations, 
and  already  rule  our  fates.  But  that  Ilerschcl,  for  ex- 
ample, who  "broke  the  barriers  of  the  heavens"  — 
did  he  not  once  play  a  provincial  church  organ,  and 
give  music-lessons  to  stumbling  pianists?  Each  of 
those  Shining  Ones  had  to  walk  on  the  earth  among 
neighbors  who  perhaps  thought  much  more  of  his  gait 


206  MIDDLEXARCff. 

and  his  garments  than  of  anything  which  was  to  give, 
him  a  title  to  everlasting  fame  :  ouch  of  them  had  his 
little  local  personal  history  sprinkled  with  small  temp- 
tations and  sordid  cares,  which  made  the  retarding 
friction  of  his  course  toward  linal  companionship  \viih 
the  immortals. 


One's  self-satisfaction  is  an  nntaxcd  kind  of  property 
which  it  is  very  unpleasant  to  find  depreciated. 


"We  arc  not  afraid  of  telling  over  and  over  again  how 
a  man  comes  to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  and  be  wed- 
ded to  her,  or  else  be  fatally  parted  from  her.  Is  it 
due  to  excess  of  poetry  or  of  stupidity  that  we  arc 
never  weary  of  describing  what  King  .lames  called  a 
woman's  "  makdom  and  her  fairnesso,"  never  weary  of 
listening  to  the  twanging  of  the  old  Troubadour  strings, 
and  are  comparatively  uninterested  in  that  other  kind 
of  "makdom  and  fairnesse"  which  must  be  wooed 
with  industrious  thought  and  patient  renunciation  of 
small  desires?  In  the  story  of  this  passion,  too,  the 
development  varies:  sometimes  it  is  the  glorious  mar- 
riage, sometimes  frustration  and  final  parting.  Ami 
not  seldom  the  catastrophe  is  wound  up  with  the  other 
passion,  sung  by  the  Troubadours.  1'or  in  the  mul- 
titude of  middle-aged  men  who  go  about  their  vo- 
cations in  a  daily  course  determined  for  them  much  in 
the  same  way  as  the  tie  of  t heir  cravats,  there  is  always 
a  good  number  who  once  meant  to  shape  their  own 
deeds  and  alter  the  world  a  little.  The  story  of  their 
coming  to  be  shapen  after  the  average,  and  lit  to  be, 


MIDDLEMAUCU.  207 

packed  by  the  gross,  is  hardly  ever  told  even  in  their 
consciousness;  lor  perhaps  Uieir  ardor  for  generous, 
unpaid  toil  cooled  us  imperceptibly  us  the  ardor  of 
other  youthful  loves,  till  one  day  their  earlier  self 
walked  like  a  ghost  in  its  old  home  and  made  the  new 
furniture  ghastly.  Nothing  in  the  world  more  subtle 
than  the  process  of  their  gradual  change  !  In  the  be- 
ginning they  inhaled  it  unknowingly:  you  and  I  may 
have  sent  some  of  our  breath  toward  infecting  them, 
when  we  uttered  our  conforming  falsities  or  drew  our 
silly  conclusions  ;  or  perhaps  it  came  with  the  vibra- 
tions from  a  woman's  glance. 


Strange  that  some  of  us,  with  quick  alternate  vision, 
see  beyond  our  infatuations,  and  even  while  we  rave 
on  the  heights,  behold  the  wide  plain  where  our  per- 
sistent self  pauses  and  await.s  us. 


In  these  matters  he  was  conscious  that  his  life  would 
bear  the  clo:-est  scrutiny:  and  perhaps  the  conscious- 
ness encouraged  a  little  defiance  toward  the  critical 
si  rici  ness  of  persons  whose  celestial  intimacies  seemed 
not  to  improve  their  domestic  manners,  and  whose 
lofty  aims  were  not  needed  to  account  for  their  actions. 


The  character  of  the  publican  and  sinner  is  not  al- 
ways practically  ineompaiibk-  wi.h  thai  of  the  modern 
1'harisee,  for  the  majoriiy  of  us  scarcely  see  more  dis- 
tinctly the  faiiltincss  of  our  own  conduct  than  tin:  fauli- 
ine>s  of  our  own  arguments,  or  the  dulnes.s  of  our 
own  jokes. 


208  XIDDLEXAKCII. 

Many  men  have  been  praised  as  vividly  imaginutivo 

on  the  stivng.h  of  thei;1  profuv..:nc>s  in  Kidiil'erent, 
drawing  or  cheap  narration  :  reports  of  very  poor  talk 
going  on  in  di>tuni  orb--:  or  portrait--  of  L;;cii'.  r  com- 
ing down  on  his  bad  errands  as  a  laruv.  uirly  man  wi,h 
bat's  wings  and  sjnirts  of  phosplior  •-C'.-nci.' :  or  ex- 
aggerations of  wantonness  that  seemed  to  rellect  life 
in  a  diseased  dream,  lint  these  kinds  of  inspiration 
Lydgate  regarded  as  rather  vulgar  and  vinous  com- 
pared \viih  the  imagination  that  reveals  subtile  actions 
inaccesMble  by  any  sort  of  lens,  but  trucked  in  that 
outer  darkness  through  long  pathways  of  necessary 
sequence  by  the  inward  light  which  is  the  last  refine- 
ment of  energy,  capable  of  bathing  even  the  ethereal 
atoms  in  its  ideally  illuminated  >pace.  He,  for  his 
part,  had  tos.-cd  away  all  cheap  inventions  where  ig- 
norance linds  itself  able  and  at  ease1  :  he  was  enamored 
of  that  arduous  invention  which  is  the  very  eye  of  re- 
search, provisionally  framing  its  object  and  correcting 
it  to  more  and  more  exactness  of  relation;  he  wanted, 
to  pierce  the  obscurity  of  tlio.-e  minute  processes 
•which  prepare  human  misery  and  joy,  those  invi.-ible 
thoroughfares  which  are  the  first  lurking-places  of 
anguish,  mania,  and  crime,  that  delicate  poNe  and 
tran>ition  which  determine  the  growth  of  happy  or 
unhappy  consciousness. 


MIDDLEMARC1I.  209 

where  sec  them  for  the  first  time  in  their  own  homes ; 
some  indeed  showing  like  an  actor  of, Denial  parts  dis- 
advantageous]}' cast  for  the  curmudgeon  in  a  new 

piece. 


The  Hector  was  a  likeable  man :  sweet-tempered, 
ready-witted,  frank,  without  grins  of  suppressed  bit- 
terness or  other  conversational  flavors  which  make 
half  of  us  an  afiliction  to  our  friends. 


The  fact  is  unalterable,  that  a  follow-mortal  with 
vho.se  nature  you  are  acquainted  solely  through  the 
brief  entrances  and  exits  of  a  few  imaginative  weeks 
called  courtship,  may,  when  seen  in  (he  continuity  of 
married  companionship,  bo  disclosed  as  something 
better  or  worse  than  what  you  have  preconceived,  but 
will  certainly  not  appear  altogeiher  the  same.  And  it 
would  lie  astonishing  to  tind  how  soon  the  change 
is  fell  if  we  had  no  kindred  changes  to  compare  with 
it.  To  share  lodgings  with  a  brilliant  dinner  com- 
panion, or  to  see  your  favorite  politician  in  the  Min- 
istry, may  bring  about  changes  quite  as  rapid:  in 
these  cases  too  wo  begin  by  knowing  little  and  believ- 
ing mud!,  and  we  sometimes  end  by  inverting  the 
quantities. 


In  courtship  everything  is  regarded  as  provisional 
14 


210  MID  T)L  E.VA  R  Off. 

and  preliminary,  and  the  smallest  smnplo  of  virtue  or 
accompli- -Imient  N  taken  to  .^uarantee  delightful  stores 
which  tin1  broad  Ic'iMire  of  marriage  \vill  reveal.  15ut 
the  door-sill  of  marriage,  once  cros>rd,  expectation  is 
concentrated  on  the  present.  Having  once  embarked 
on  yon i1  marital  voyage,  it  is  iinpossible  not  to  be 
aware  that  yon  make  no  way.  and  that  the  sea  is  not 
within  siidit —  that,  in  i'act,  you  are  exploring  an  un- 
closed basin. 


There  is  hardly  any  contact  more  depressing  to  a 
youuir  ardent  creature  than  that  of  a  mind  in  which 
years  full  of  knowledge  seem  to  have  issued  in  a  blank 
absence  of  interest  or  sympathy. 


"  I  am  very  ylad  that  my  presence  has  made  any  dif- 
ference to  yon."  said  Dorothea,  who  had  a  vivid  mem- 
ory of  evenings  in  which  she  had  supposed  that  Mr. 
Casaubon's  mind  had  irone  too  deep  during  the  day  to 
be  able  to  ^et  to  the  surface  a^ain. 


How  far  the  judicious  Hooker  or  any  other  hero  of 
erudition  would  have  been  ;he  same  at  Mr.  Casaubon's 
time  of  life,  she  had  no  means  of  knowim:.  so  that  he 
could  not  have  the  advantage  of  comparison ;  but  her 
husband'.-  way  of  couimen.  i  ;:'_;•  on  i  !!••  strain^  ly  i.npivs- 
sive  objects  aroiu.d  tin-in  had  be:run  to  :;li'e<-;  h<  r  wi;h 
a  sort  of  mi  n'al  shiver  :  he  had  perhaps  the  i>e-:  i.r,-,  n- 
tion  o!' aeqiiii :  ini;'  hiniM-lf  \\oriliily.  but  milv  of  aeiiiii!- 
tin.^  hiiu>elf.  \Vhat  was  fre.-h  io  !r-r  mi;id  was  worii 
out  to  his  ;  ami  such  capacity  of  thought  and  feeling 


MIDDLE  MARCH.  211 


On  a  wedding  journey,  the  express  object  of  which 
is  to  isolate  two  people  on  the  ground  that  they  are  all 
the  world  to  each  other,  the  sense  of  disagreement  is, 
to  say  the  least,  confounding  and  stultifying.  To  have 
changed  your  longitude  extensively,  and  placed  your- 
selves in  a  moral  solitude  in  order  to  have  small  explo- 
sions, to  find  conversation  diilicult,  and  to  hand  a  glass 
of  water  without  looking,  can  hardly  be  regarded  as 
satisfactory  fulfilment  even  to  the  toughest  minds. 


Caleb  Garth  often  shook  his  head  in  meditation  on 
the  value,  the  indispensable  might  of  that  myriad- 
headed,  myriad-handed  labor  by  which  the  social  body 
is  fed,  clothed,  and  housed.  It  had  laid  hold  of  his 
imagination  in  boyhood.  The  echoes  of  the  great 
hammer  where  roof  or  keel  were  a-making,  the  signal- 
shouts  of  the  workmen,  the  roar  of  the  furnace,  the 
thunder  and  pla.--h  of  the  engine,  were  a  sublime  music 
to  him  ;  the  felling  and  lading  of  timber,  and  the  huge 
trunk  vibrating  star-like  in  the  distance  along  the  high- 
way, the  crane  at  work  on  the  wharf,  the  piled-up 
produce  in  warehouses,  the  precision  and  variety  of 
muscular  effort  wherever  exact  work  had  to  be  turned 
out  —  all  these  sights  of  his  youth  had  acted  on  him 
as  poetry,  without  the  aid  of  the  poets,  had  imule  a 
philosophy  for  him  without  the  aid  of  philosophers,  a 
religion  without  the  aid  of  theology,  liis  early  ambi- 


212  MIDDLEXAIt  Cir. 

lion  had  been  to  have  as  effective  a  share  as  possible 
in  this  sublime  labor,  which  was  peculiarly  dignified  by 

him  with  the  name  of  ••  business  " ;  and  though  he  had 
only  been  a  short  time  under  a  surveyor,  and  hud  been 
chieily  his  own  teacher,  he  knew  more  of  land,  build- 
in. LT,  and  mining  than  most  of  the  special  men  in  the 
county. 

His  classification  of  human  employments  was  rather 
crude,  and  like  the  categories  of  more  celebrated  men, 
•\vould  not  be  acceptable  in  these  advanced  times.  lie 
divided  them  into  '•  business,  politics,  preaching,  learn- 
ing, and  amusement."  He  had  nothing  to  say  against 
the  lust  four;  but  he  regarded  them  as  a  reverential 
pagan  regarded  other  gods  than  his  own.  In  the  same 
way  he  thought,  very  well  of  all  ranks,  but  he  would 
not  himself  have  liked  to  be  of  any  rank  in  which  he 
had  not  such  close  contact  with  "  business  "  as  to  get 
often  honorably  decorated  with  marks  of  dust  and 
mortar,  the  damp  of  the  engine,  or  the  sweet  soil  of 
the  woods  and  lields.  Though  he  had  never  regarded 
himself  as  other  than  an  orthodox  Christian,  and  would 
argue  on  prevenient  grace  if  the  subject  were  proposed 
to  him.  I  think  his  virtual  divinities  were  good  prac- 
tical schemes,  accurate  work,  and  the  faithful  comple- 
tion of  undertakings  :  his  prince  of  darkne-,-,  wa<  a 
slack  workman.  I5;it  there  wa^  no  >pirit  of  d'-nial  i:i 
Caleb,  and  the  world  seemed  so  wondron^  to  him  that 
he  was  ivadv  to  accept  any  number  of  ^ysiem^.  like 
uny  numb  r  of  lirmamenis,  if  ih.'V  did  no:  oiivi  >;i--'y 
interfere  with  the  best  land  drainage,  s.ilid  building. 
correct  measuring,  and  judicious  boring  ^I'or  coal).  In 


MIDDLEMARCTI.  213 

fact,  lie  had  a  reverential  soul  with  a  strong  practical 
intelligence. 


Lydgate  was  as  polite  as  lie  could  be  in  his  off-hand 
way,  but  politeness  in  a  man  who  lias  placed  you  at  a 
disadvantage  is  only  an  additional  exasperation,  espec- 
ially if  he  happens  to  have  been  an  object  of  dislike 
beforehand. 


If  Lydgate  had  been  aware  of  all  the  pride  he  ex- 
cited in  that  delicate  bosom,  he  might  have  been  just 
as  well  pleased  as  any  other  man,  even  the  most  densely 
ignorant  of  Immoral  pathology  or  iibrous  tissue  :  ho 
held  it  one  of  the  prettiest  attitudes  of  the  feminine 
mind  to  adore  a  man's  preeminence  without  too  pre- 
cise a  knowledge  of  what  it  consisted  in. 

But  Kosamond  was  not  one  of  those  helpless  girls 
who  betray  themselves  unawares,  and  whose  behavior 
is  awkwardly  driven  by  their  impulses,  instead  of  being 
steered  by  wary  grace  and  propriety. 

She  was  not  in  the  habit  of  devising  falsehoods,  and 
if  her  statements  were  no  direct  clew  to  fact,  why, 
they  were  not  intended  in  that  light  —  they  were  among 
her  elegant  accomplishments,  intended  to  please. 


"  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  getting  so  learned,"  said 
Celia,  regarding  Mr.  Casaubon's  learning  as  a  kind  of 
damp  which  might  in  due  time  saturate  a  neighboring 
body. 


214  MIDDLEMARCn. 

To  know  intense  joy  without.  ;i  strong  bodily  frame, 
one  must  have  an  enthusiastic  soul. 


Society  never  made  the  preposterous  demand  that  a 
man  should  think  as  much  about  his  own  qualifications 
for  making  a  charming  girl  happy  as  he  thinks  of  hers 
for  making  himself  happy.  As  if  a  man  could  choose 
not  only  his  wife,  but  his  wile's  husband!  Or  as  if  he 
were  bound  to  provide  charms  for  his  posterity  in  his 
owu  person ! 


It  is  an  uneasy  lot  at  best  to  be  what  we  call  highly 
taught  and  yet  not  to  enjoy  :  to  be  present  at  this  great 
spectacle  of  life  and  never  to  be  liberated  from  a  small 
hungry  shivering  self— never  to  be  fully  possessed  by 
the  glory  we  behold,  never  to  have  our  consciousness 
rapturously  transformed  into  '.he  vividness  of  a  thought, 
the  ardor  of  a  passion,  the  eneriry  of  an  action,  but  al- 
ways to  be  scholarly  and  uninspired,  ambitious  and 
timid,  scrupulous  and  dim->ightcd. 


There  are  answers  which,  in  turning  away  wrath, 
only  send  i!  to  the  o  I  her  end  of  the  room  ;  a  IK!  to  have 
a  (liscu-si')ii  coolly  waived  when  you  feel  that  justice 
is  all  on  your  own  side  is  even  more  exasperating  in 
marriage  than  in  philosophy. 


The  end  of  Mr.  Brooke's  pen  was  a  thinking  oru'an, 
evolving  sentences,  especially  of  a  benevolent  kind, 
before  (he  re^t  of  his  mind  could  well  overtake  them. 
It  expressed  regrets  and  proposed  remedies,  which, 


MIT)DLEXARCII.  215 

when  Mr.  Brooke  read  them,  seemed  felicitously 
worded —  surprisingly  the  right  thing,  and  determined 
a  sequel  which  he  had  never  before  thought  of. 


The  right  word  is  always  a  power,   and  communi- 
cates its  deh'niteness  to  our  action. 


There  was  a  general  sense  running  in  the  Feather- 
stone  blood  that  everybody  must  watch  everybody 
else,  and  that  it  would  be  well  for  everybody  else  to 
reflect  that  the  Almighty  was  watching  him. 


lie  was  a  large-cheeked  man,  nearly  seventy,  with 
small,  furtive  eyes,  and  was  not  only  of  much  blander 
temper,  but  though!  hiui-'elf  much  deeper  than  his 
brother  1'eter;  indeed,  not  likely  to  be  deceived  in 
any  of  his  fellow-men,  inasmuch  as  they  could  not  well 
be  more;  greedy  and  deceitful  than  he  suspected  them 
of  being. 


lie  was  an  amateur  of  superior  phrases,  and  never 
used  poor  language  without  immediately  correcting 
himself — which  was  fortunate,  as  he  was  rather  loud, 
and  given  to  predominate,  standing  .or  walking  about 
frequently,  pulling  down  his  waisicoat  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  is  very  much  of  his  own  opinion,  trimming 
himself  rapidly  with  his  forefinger,  and  marking  each 
new  series  in  these  movements  by  a  busy  pi, jy  with 
hi:-  large  seals.  There1  was  occasionally  a  litile  lierce- 
ness  in  his  demeanor,  bu;  it  was  directed  chiefly  against 
false  opinion,  of  which  there  is  so  much  to  correct  in 


21G 


the  Avorld  that  a  man  of  sonic  rending  and  experience 
necessarily  ha>  his  patience  tried. 


Dorothea  liked  her  thoughts  :  a  vigorous  young  mind, 
not  overbalanced  by  pas.-ion.  finds  a  good  in  making 
acquaintance  with  life,  and  watches  its  own  powers 
•with  interest. 


If  any  one  will  contend  that  there  must  have  been 
traits  of  goodness  in  old  Featherstono.  I  will  not  pre- 
sume to  deny  this;  but  I  must  observe  that  goodness 
is  of  a  modest  nature,  easily  discouraged,  and  when 
much  elbowed  in  early  life  by  unabashed  vices,  is  apt 
to  retire  into  extreme  privacy,  so  that  it:  is  mure  easily 
believed  in  by  those  who  construct  a  selfish  old  gentle- 
man theoretically  than  by  those  who  form  the  narrower 
judgments  based  on  his  per.-onal  acquaintance. 


The  country  gentry  of  old  time  lived  in  a  rarefied 
social  air :  dotted  apart  on  their  stations  up  the  moun- 
tain, they  looked  down  with  imperfect  discrimination 
on  the  belts  of  thicker  life  below. 


Solomon  took  out  hi<  white  handkerchief  again  with 

a  sense  that  in  any  case  there  would  be  allec*.  ing  pas- 
sages, and  crying  at  funerals,  however  dry.  was  cus- 
tomarily served  up  in  lawn. 


217 


If  Dorothea  spoke  with  any  keenness  of  interest  to 
3Ir.  Casaubon,  he-  heard  her  with  an  air  of  patience  as 
if  she  h;ul  I?!  veil  a  quotation  from  the  Delectus  familial1 
to  him  from  his  tender  years,  and  sometimes  men- 
tioned curily  what  ancient  seels  or  personages  had 
held  similar  ideas,  as  if  there  were  loo  nnieh  of  timt 
•sort  in  slock  already;  at  other  times  lie  would  inform 
her  that  she  was  mistaken,  and  reassert  what  her  re- 
mark had  questioned. 


However  slight  the  terrestrial  intercourse  between 
Dante  and  Beat  rice  or  Pet  rarcli  and  Laura,  lime  changes 
the  proportion  of  things,  and  in  later  days  it,  is  prefer- 
able to  have  fewer  sonnets  and  more  conversation. 


Vrill  was  not  widioiit  his  intentions  to  be  always 
"•onerous ;  but  our  tongues  are  lil'le  t risers  which 
have  usually  been  pulled  before  general  intensions  can 
be  brought  to  bear. 


Anypri\'a(e  hours  in  her  day  "wore  usually  speii!  in 
her  lihi.'-uTeeii  boudoir,  ;:'.!'!  she  li::d  come  to  be  very 
fond  of  it  -  pallid  quain  in  .  No  been  out- 

wardly altered  there;   but  while  the  summer  had  ,uTad- 


•218 


tially  advanced  over  the  western  fields  lv  yond  the 
avemie  of  elms,  the  bare  ro  >m  had  :^a'!ieri  d  wi'hin  it 
tluise  meniorii  s  of  an  inward  life  which  ;!'.!  l]ie  air  as 
\vi:h  a  cloud  of  ^ood  or  bad  angels,  the  invisible  yet 
ae;  ive  forms  of  our  spiri'  ual  triumph--  or  our  --pirit  ual 
fail--.  ])-.;ri>tiiea  had  been  so  used  to  siruir^ie  i'or  and 
to  lind  resolve  in  lookinic  aloiiLj  the  avenue  toward  ihe- 
arc!,  of  westi  rn  lia'ht  that  the  vi>i  >n  it>eif  had  gained 
a  communicating  ]io\vi.-r.  Even  the  pale  sla.ic  seemed 
to  have  reminding  glances,  and  to  ;nean  mutely,  '•  Ye.s, 
•\ve  know." 


She  vras  blind,  you  see.  to  many  things  obvious  to 
other.-;  —  !il;Lly  to  iread  in  the  \vro:iL:  places,  as  Telia 
liad  v,-;;rned  her :  yet  her  blindness  to  whatever  did  not 
lie  hi  her  own  pure  purpose  car-led  her  safely  by  the 
side  of  precipices  where  vi.-ion  would  have  been  peril- 
ous with  fear. 


llu-ir  a-pe<et  i',r  us  aTer  we  have  h  -ard  s-::;e  frank 
remark  on  th.-ir  l.s-  ad::.irable  p>)ii;:~:  an  1  ":i  the 
other  hand  it  i--  ::--'o:. ;•-!:'::;  h  >w  ;!••;,-:.;.'!;,•  <••  ;.->•;.  ;i':e 
tales  our  enero,;eh;:!(  ::'  -  m;  tho.-;.'  v.  ho  ne\  ei1  e-  'mpl.iiu 
or  have  ie.bod\'  t-.  com.  '.,.:n  for  the;;i. 


A  hidden  soul  seemed  to  be  flowing  forth  from  Eos- 
amond's  fingers;  and  so  indeed  it  was,  since  souls  live 
ou  in  perpetual  echoes,  and  to  all  line  expression  (here 
goes  somewhere  an  originating  activity,  it'  it  be  only 
that  of  an  interpreter. 


Who  shall  tell  what  may  be  the  effect  of  writing? 
If  it  happens  to  have  been  cut  in  stone,  though  it  lie 
fare  downmost  for  ages  on  a  forsaken  beach,  or  "rest, 
quietly  under  tli:.'  drums  and  (rain;. lings  of  many  con- 
quests," it  may  end  by  letting  us  into  the  secret  of 
usurpations  and  other  scandals  gossiped  about  long 
empires  ago;  ihis  world  being  apparently  a  huge  whis- 
pering-gallery. Such  conditions  are  often  minutely 
represented  in  our  pe''y  lifetimes.  As  the  stone  \vlii  :h 
has  been  kicked  by  general  ions  of  clowns  may  come  '  -y 
curious  lit  lie  1  i;;k>  of  c:Tect  under  the  eye.  of  a  scholar, 
through  whose  labors  it  may  a(  hist  fix  the  date  of  in- 
va.-  ions  and  unlock  religions,  so  a  !;it  of  ink  and  paper 
which  has  long  been  an  innocent  wrapping  or  •  ':  •  ip-g  '  p 
may  at  last,  be  laid  open  under  the  one  pair  of  eyes 
which  have  knowledge  enough  to  turn  i  into  the  < 
iug  of  a  catastrophe.  To  Uriel,  watching;  the-  progress 
of  planetary  his! ory  from  tlie  !  u  •  re  'ill  v 

}>('  jii-'-t  as  much  of  a  coincidence  as  iiie  other. 


220 


Dorothea  betrayed  any  anxiety  as  to  how  far  it  nii.srht 
be  likely  to  c;il  short  his  labors  or  his  life.  On  this 
point.  :is  on  all  others,  he  shrank  fro;n  pity:  ami  if  the 
suspicion  of  bein;;  pi;ied  f?r  anything  in  his  lot  sur- 
mised or  known  in  spile  of  himself  was  embiiterinir. 
the  idea  of  falling  forth  a  sliow  of  compassion  by 
frankly  admitting  an  alarm  or  a  sorrow  was  neces- 
sarily intolerable  to  him.  Kvery  proud  mind  knows 
.something  of  this  experience,  and  perhap^  it  is  only  to 
be  overcome  by  a  sen-e  of  fellowship  deep  enough  to 
make  all  efforts  at  isolation  seem  mean  and  petty  in- 
stead of  exalting. 


TVhen  the  commonplace  i;  \Vo  must  all  die"  trans- 
forms itself  suddenly  into  the  acute  consciousness,  ••  I 
must  die  —  and  soon,"  then  death  grapples  us.  anil  his 
finirers  are  cruel:  afterward  he  may  come  to  fold  us  in 
his  arms  as  our  mother  did.  and  our  la<t  moment  of 
dim  earthly  discerning  may  be  like  the  lirst. 


Irregularities  of  judgment,  I  imairiii'1.  are  found  even 
in  riper  minds  than  Mary  Cjarih's;  our  impartiality  is 
kept  for  abstact  merit  and  demerit,  which  none  of  us 
ever  saw. 


Looking  fit  the  moiln-r.  you  mi.Lrh!  liope  that  the 
dauu'li:  IT  would  become  like  ln-r.  which  i-  a  pro-pee- 
ti  ve  ad\'anta:ve  equal  to  a  dowry  —  the  moi her  too  often 
slaiiiliiiLC  bi-liind  the  (laughter  lik'- a  maliLTiian!  proj'h- 
ee  —  ••Such  as  I  am  >he  will  shortly  be." 


MIDDLEMAN  r~77.  221 

Where  women  love  each  other,  men  learn  to  smother 
their  mutual  dislike. 


Mr.  Ilorrock  looked  before  him  with  as  complete  a  neu- 
trality as  if  he  had  been  a  portrait  by  a  great  master. 
***** 

Costume,  at  a  glance,  gave  Ilorrock  a  thrilling  as- 
sociation with  horses  (enough  to  specify  the  hat-brim, 
which  took  the  slightest  upward  angle  just  to  escape 
the  suspicion  of  bending  downward  _),  and  nature  had 
given  him  a  face  which  by  dint  of  Mongolian  eyes,  and 
a  nose,  mouth,  and  chin  seeming  to  follow  his  hat-brim 
in  a  moderate  inclination  upward,  gave  the  ell'ect  of  a 
subdued  unchangeable;  sceptical  smile,  of  all  expres- 
sions the  most  tyrannous  over  a  susceptible  mind,  and, 
when  accompanied  by  adequate  silence,  likely  to  create 
the  reputation  of  an  invincible  understanding,  an  in- 
finite fund  of  humor  —  too  dry  to  flow,  and  probably  in 
a  state  of  immovable  crust  —  and  a  critical  judgment 
which,  if  you  could  ever  be  fortunate  enough  to  know 
it,  would  be  (he  tiling  and  no  other.  It  is  a  physiog- 
nomy seen  in  all  vocations,  but  perhaps  it  has  never 
been  more  powerful  over  the  youth  of  England  than  in 
a  judge  of  horses. 


Scepticism,  as  we  know,  can  never  be  thoroughly 
applied,  else  life  would  come  to  a  stand-still:  some- 
thing we  must  believe  in  and  do.  and  whatever  that 
so.ii'.'ihing  may  be  called,  it  is  virtually  our  own  judg- 
nieni.  even  when  it  seems  like  the  most  slavish  reliance 
on  another. 


222 


"With  the  superfluous  securities  of  hope  at  his  com- 
mand, there  was  no  reason  why  Fred  should  not  have 
increased  other  people's  liabilities  to  any  extent  but 
for  the  fact  that  men  whose  names  were  good  for  any- 
thing were  Usually  pessimists,  indi-posed  to  believe 
that  the  universal  order  of  things  would  necessarily  be 
agreeable  to  au  agreeable  voung  gentleman. 


With  a  favor  to  ask  we  review  our  list  of  friends,  do 
justice  to  their  more  amiable  qualities,  forgive  their 
little  oll'ences,  and  concerning  each  in  turn  try  to  ar- 
rive at  the  conclusion  that  he  will  be  eager  to  oblige  us, 
our  own  eagerness  to  Ije  obliged  being  as  communi- 
cable as  other  warmth. 


ilrs.  Garth,  like  more  celebrated  educators,  had  her 
favorite  ancient  paths,  and  in  a  general  wreck  of  society 
would  have  tried  to  hold  hei'Lindicy  -Murray  above  the 
waves. 


The  remote  worship  of  a  woman  throned  out  of  their 
reach  plays  a  great  part  in  men's  Jives,  but  in  mo<t 
Cases  the  worshipper  longs  Cor  some  queenly  n  •••igni- 
tion, some  approving  sign  by  wliieh  his  soul's  sovereign 
may  cheer  him  without  descending  from  her  high 
place. 


MIDDLEMARGn.  223 

Lydgatc  had  not  been  long  in  the  town  before 
there  wore  particulars  enough  reported  of  him  to  breed 
much  more  spec-Hie  expectations  and  io  intensify  dif- 
ferences  into  partisanship;  some  of  the  particulars 
bein:;  of  that  impressive  order  of  which  the  significance 
is  entirely  hidden,  like  a  statistical  amount  without  a 
standard  of  comparison,  but  with  a  note  of  exclamation 
at  the  end.  The  cubic  feet  of  oxygen  yearly  swallowed 
by  a  full-grown  man  —  what  a  shudder  they  might,  have 
created  in  some  Middle-march  circles  !  "Oxygen!  no- 
body knows  what  that  may  be  —  is  it  any  wonder  the 
cholera  has  got  to  Dant/ic?  And  yet  there  are  people 
who  say  quarantine  i.-i  no  ::ood  !  " 


It  is  a  little  too  trying  to  human  flesh  to  be  con- 
scious of  expressing  one's  self  better  than  others,  and 
never  to  have  it,  noticed,  and  in  the  general  dearth  of 
admiration  for  the  right  thing,  even  a  chance  bray  of 
applause  falling  exactly  in  time  is  rather  fortifying. 


Do  we  not  shun  the  street  version  of  a  fine  melody? 
or  shrink  from  the  news  that  Hie  rarity  —  some  bit  of 
chiselling  or  engraving  perhaps  —  which  we  have  dwelt 
on  even  with  exult  a  :  trouble  U  li  ;  cost  us  to 

snatch  g!imp..es  of  it,  i  ;  really  noi  an  uncommon  thing, 
and  may  be  obtained  as  an  ev<  ry-day  possession?  Our 
good  depends  on  the  quality  and  breadth  of  our  emo- 
tion; and  to  V/ill,  a  creature  who  cared  little  for  what 


are  called  the  solid  things  of  life  and  LM-oa'ly  for  its 
fnibtler  inlluciices.  to  have  v.'i'hin  hi:;i  >u''!i  a  feelhiLr  as 
ho  had  toward  Doro'hea.  was  like  th"  iiihi-riiance  "f  a 
i':irtune.  \Vlia{  others  ini^ht  have  f-allcil  the  I'utility 
of  his  pa»i.-m  made  an  addi:  ion;;!  ddiu'ht  for  his  imaLT- 
i'.iation:  lie  was  conscious  of  a  generous  movement, 
anil  of  verilyin.u:  in  his  own  experience  that  higher 
love-poetry  which  had  charmed  his  1'ancy. 


It  was  not  about  the  bi'u'iiiiiiacr  of  his  speech  that 
Mr.  Drooke  w;;s  at  all  anxious  :  this,  he  IHt  sure, 
v.-ould  be  all  riu'ht;  he  should  iiave  it  <ji:ite  ]ia(.  cut  out 
;;s  neatly  as  a  set  of  couplets  from  Pope.  Embarking 
would  be  ('asy.  but  the  vi>ion  of  open  sea  that  mi'rht 
come  after  was  alanu'nm'. 


*  MIDDLEMAN  err.  225 

demerit  docs  not  take  n,  distinct  shape  in  memory,  and 
revive  the  tingling  of  shame  or  the  pan:;;  of  remorse. 
Xay.  it  may  be  held  with  intense  satisfaction  when  the 
depth  of  our  sinning  is  but  a  measure  for  the  depth  of 
forgiveness,  and  a  clinching  proof  that  we  are  peculiar 
instruments  of  the  divine  intention.  The  incmoiT  has 
as  many  moods  as  the  temper,  and  shifts  its  scenery 
like  a  diorama. 


If  youth  is  the  season  of  hope,  it  is  often  so  only  in 
the  sense  that  our  elders  are  hopeful  about  us;  for  no 
age  is  so  apt  as  youth  to  think  its  emotions,  partings, 
and  resolves  are  the  last  of  their  kind.  Each  crisis 
seems  linal,  simply  because  it  is  new.  "Wo  arc  told 
that:  the  oldest  inhabitants  in  Peru  do  not  cease  to  be 
agitated  by  the  earthquakes,  but  they  probably  see  be- 
yond each  shock,  and  reflect  that  there  are  plenty  more 
to  come. 


Vrhen  a  tender  affection  has  been  storing  itself  in  us 
through  many  of  our  years,  the  idea  that  we  could  ac- 
cept any  exchange  for  it  seems  to  be  a  cheapening  of 
our  lives.  And  we  can  set  a  watch  over  our  affections 
and  our  constancy  as  we  can  over  other  treasures. 


Lydgatc  was  constantly  visiting  the  homes  of  the 
P-K.T,  and  adjusting  his  prescriptions  of  diet  to  their 
small  means;  hut,  dear  me!  has  it  not  by  this  time 
ceased  to  be  remarkabU — is  iL  not  rather  wha!  we 
expect  in  men  —  that  they  should  have  numerous 
strands  of  experience  lying  side  by  side,  and  never 


compare'  them  \vi;!i  <>;irh  other?  Expenditure —  like 
ugliness  a'.id  errors  —  becomes  a  totally  new  thim; 
when  we  attach  our  own  per->o:;ali'y  to  i'.  and  incas- 
uru  it  by  thai  wide  diil'erenee  whieh  i  •;  manifest  (in  our 
o\vn  sensations;  be;  ween  ourselves  and  others. 


At  that  time  the  opinion  existed  that  it  was  beneath 
a  i;'en;leman  to  write  le_nb'y.  or  wi'h  a  hand  in  the 
lea>t  suitable  to  a  clerk,  i-'ivd  wi'ot(.-  tlie  lines  de- 
manded in  a  hand  as  ii-entlenianiy  as  that  of  any  vis- 
count or  bi>liop  of  the  day:  the  vowels  were  all  alike 
and  the  consonants  only  di-;:  iiiu'ni--hab'e  as  tunii:.ir  np 
or  down,  the  strokes  had  a  Molly  solidity,  and  the  1<  t- 
ters  disd;u'ned  to  keep  the  line  :  in  short,  i:  was  a  nian- 
uscript  of  that  venerable  kind  ea>y  to  interpret  when 
you  kno\v  l)ef(jre]iand  wlial  'lie  \vrl!er  means. 

As  Caleb  looked  on.  l:i--  vi  -av;-  showed  a  L,TOW;MI; 
depression,  bni  when  Fred  handed  him  the  paper  he 
crave  something  like  a  snarl.  a;.d  rapped  ihe  jiaper  pas- 
siona:ely  with  'lie  bark  of  his  hand.  J>ad  work  like 

"Tli  •  d.  uee  !  "  he  ex'-l. •,";.:  led.  .-nariin'^ly.  "To  think 
1hat  this  i-  a  coiin:  ry  where  a  m  ill's  edut'atlm  m  :y 
cn>1  h;p:  ;,->.;-,  ni.il  h!;;:;';reil  .  and  i:  ::;i-::--  you  n'it 
IhN  !  "  Tiien  in  a  more  p:::!i".ic  ton''.  p:;-lii:i^  up  his 
hpeclack->  and  looking  a:  the  unt'ortunate  --eriije,  "'iiiu 


227 


Lord  have  mercy  on  us,   Fred,  I  can't  put  up  with 
this!" 

•:  \Yhat  can  I  do,  Mr.  Gari.li?  "  said  Fred,  whose 
spirits  'lad  sunk  very  low,  not  only  at  the  estimate 
of  his  handwriting,  l)iit  at  the  vision  of  himself  as 
liable  to  be  ranked  with  ofiice-elerks. 

"Do?  Why,  you  must  learn  to  form  your  letters 
and  keep  the  line.  What's  the  use  of  writing  at  all  if 
nobody  can  understand  ii  ?  "  a>kcd  Caleb,  energetically, 
quite  preoccupied  wiih  the  bad  (iiiality  of  the  work. 
"  Is  there  so  little  business  in  the  world  that  you  must 
be  sending  puzzles  over  the  count:";;:'  IJut  that's  the 
way  people  are  brought  up.  I  should  lose  no  end  of 
time  with  the  letters  some  people  send  me,  if  Susan 
didn't  make  them  out  for  me.  It's  disgusting'."  Here 
Caleb  tossed  the  paper  from  him. 


"Between    Lydgatc    and    Ilosamoud    there   was    that 
total   mining   of   each   other's    mental    track,    which 

is  too  evidently  possible  even  between  persons  who 
are  continually  thinking  of  each  oilu  r.  To  Lydgate  it 
seemed  thai,  he  had  been  spending  month  after  month 
in  siicriiiei'.i'i-  more  than  half  of  his  best  intent  and  best 
power  to  his  tenderness  for  Kosamond;  bearing  her 
little  claims  and  interruptions  without  impatience, 
anil,  above  all.  bearing  with  >ut  betrayal  of  bitterness 
to  lo:,-k  llii'ough  less  and  less  of  interfering  illusion  at 
the  blank  unreflecting  surface  her  mind  presented  io 
hi  j  ardor  for  the  more  i  .  '.  •  \-\  •  (,['  I.'. 

sion    a;ul   his  scientifi  .    an   aru,»r  \\'hie:i   he  had 

iaiicied  that  the  iutad  wife  must  somehow  worship  ;is 


228 


sublime,  though  not  in  the  least  knowing  why.  15ut 
his  ciuluraiK1!'  \v;is  mingled  wiih  :i  self-discontent 
which.  if  we  know  ho\v  lo  be  candid,  we  shall  confess 
to  make  more  Ilian  hall'  our  bitterness  under  gri;-v- 
anees,  wife  or  husband  included.  Il  ;il\vays  remains 
true  that  ii'  we  h:id  been  greater,  circumstances  would 
have  been  less  strong  against  us. 


liosamoud  was  oppressed  by  rnnni.  and  by  that  dis- 
satWaclion  which  in  women's  minds  is  continually 
turning  into  a  trivial  jealousy,  referring  lo  no  real 
claims,  springing  from  no  deeper  ])assion  than  Hie 
vague  exac! in.u'iicss  of  egoism,  and  yi^t  capable  of  im- 
pelling action  as  well  as  speech. 


Tndelinite  visions  of  ambition  are  weak  against  the 
ease  of  doing  what  is  habitual  orbeguilingly  agreeable  ; 
and  we  all  know  the  diiliculty  of  carrying  out  a  resolve 
when  wo  secrcily  long  that  il  may  inrn  out  to  be  un- 
necessary. In  such  states  of  mind  t!iemo>t  incred- 
ulous person  has  a  private  leaning  toward  miracle: 
impossible'  to  conceive  how  our  wish  could  be  fuliilled  ; 
.still — very  wonderful  things  have  happened! 


The  terror  of  being  judged  sharpens  the  memory: 
il  sends  an  inevitable  glare  over  that  loiig-unvi-ited 
past  which  has  b,  en  habiinally  recalled  only  ia  general 

jtiira-.es.  liven  wiih"a;  mem1  :'y,  ihe  life  ;:,  ;i:-u;;d  i.;;o 
one  bv  a  /one  of  dependence  in  ;;'i':r,\'i  ;i  ai!;!  decay ;  but 
in, en>e  memory  forces  a  man  lo  own  hi->  lilamewor-  hy 
past.  With  memory  set  smarting  like  a  reopened 


MIDDLEMAUCII.  229 

wound,  a  man's  past  is  not  simply  a  dead  history,  an 
outworn  preparation  of  the  present :  it  is  not  a  re- 
pented error  shaken  loose  from  (he;  life:  it  is  a  still 
quivering  part  of  himself,  bringing  shudders  and  bitter 
llavors  and  the  t inklings  of  a  merited  shame. 

Into  this  second  life  Bulstrode's  past  had  now  risen, 
only  the  pleasures  of  it  seeming  to  have  lost  their 
quality.  Night  and  day,  without  interruption  save  of 
brief  sleep  which  only  wove  retrospect  and  fear  into  a 
fantastic;  present,  he  felt  the  scenes  of  his  earlier  life 
coming  between  him  and  everything'  else,  as  obsti- 
nately as,  when  we  look  through  the  window  from  a 
lighted  room,  the  objects  we  turn  our  backs  on  are  still 
before  us,  instead  of  the  grass  and  the  trees. 


There  is  no  general  doctrine  which  is  not  capable 
of  eating  out  our  morality  if  unchecked  by  the  deep- 
seated  habit  of  direct  fellow-feeling  with  individual 
fellow-men. 


It  is  certainly  trying  to  a  man's  dignity  to  reappear 
when  he  is  not  expected  to  do  so:  a  first  farewell  has 
pathos  in  ii,  but  to  come  bad;  for  a  second  lends  an 
opening  to  cour/dy. 


Some  one  highly  susceptible  to  (he  contemplation 
of  a  fine  ::c!  has  said  thai  i!  produces  a  sort  of  regener- 
ating shudder  through  the  frame,  and  makes  one  feel 
readv  > o  be^in  a  new  li le. 


Lydgate  talked  persistently  when  they  were  in  his 


2  -3  (J  Ml  DDL  KM  A  A,'  Off. 

work- room.  puiiin.T  arguments  for  ;unl  against  the 
probability  oi'  certain  biological  views,  bul  ha  had  none 
of  those  definite  Ihinu'-;  to  say  or  to  show  whi<  h  u'ive 
Hit.-  way-marks  of  a  patient  uninterrupted  pursuit  such 
as  lit;  used  himself  to  i:i.-ist  on,  sayinic  :h:i!  "there 
must  be-  a  systole  and  diastole  in  ail  inquiry."  a;id  that 
'•a  man's  mind  must  bo  continually  expand':::;'  a:;d 
shrinking  between  the  \vliolt;  human  horizon  and  llic 
horizon  of  an  obj(;cl-:rlass." 


lie  was  not  an  il!-!ompc!-ed  man;  his  intellectual  ac- 
tivity, the  ardent  kindness  of  his  heart,  as  \vell  as  his 
strong  frame,  would  always,  un  U.T  toh  rably  easy  con- 
ditions, have  kept  him  above  ;he  p-'tty  uncontr:;!h-d 
siisccpt  ibiiitie.s  which  make  bad  te::i[ier.  15u:  he  \vas 
now  a  prey  to  that  worst  irriiation  which  arises  not 
simply  from  annoyances,  but  from  the  second  con- 
sciousness u;:d:-r!yiiiLC  those  annoyances,  of  wasted 
enerirv  and  a  th  .^radinij:  preoccupation,  which  was  the 
reverse  of  all  his  former  purposes.  ••  77-,'N  is  what  I 
am  thinking  of;  and  /u>'/  is  \vh;it  1  mi^ht  have  been 
Ihinkinir  of."  was  (lie  bi:ier  incessant  murmur  wi.hin 
liim,  m-Ll;ln'j;  c-very  di;lieiil:y  a  double  iroad  to  im- 
patience. 

Some  ^''nll'/men  have  made  an  ama/d'ii:  fi'-T'ire  in 
li'eralure  l>y  general  di-con'.eiit  \v;:h  the  u:.;ver^e  as  a 
t  rap  of  did  ness  i:iio  wh:c!i  ',  h  ir  :.rva!  si  i;il  -  liave  f  ;!•  a 
by  mi -take  ;  1ml  the  sense  of  a  -tup-nd  m-  self  and  ;:n 
in^l^niiieaut  \vor!d  may  !ia\'e  i;s  con-o!a;lon-.  l.y.l- 
gaie's  disco:i:ei;!  \v;is  mii;di  liar  !.'|- t  o  bear  ;  i;  \va-:!ie 
.sense  that  there  was  a  ^raml  existence  in  ihomrht  and 


Ml  DDLEX ARCII.  231 

effective  action  lyins^  around  him,  while  his  self  was 
bcin'j;  narrowed  into  the  miserable  isolation  of  ei>;ois!ie 
fears,  and  vulgar  anxieties  for  events  that  mi^ht  allay 
such  fears.  His  troubles  will  perhaps  appear  miserably 
sordid,  and  beneath  the  attention  oi'lofiV  persons  who 
can  know  nothing  of  debt  except  on  a  ina^nilieent  scale. 
Doubtless  they  were  sordid;  and  for  the  majority,  who 
are  not  lofty,  there  is  no  escape  from  sordidncss  but 
by  bein.i;  free  from  money-craving,  with  all  its  base 
hopes  and  teiaptations,  its  watching  for  death,  its 
hinted  requests,  its  horse-dealer's  desire  to  make  bad 
work  puss  for  i^ood,  its  seeking  for  function  which 
oun'ht  to  be  another's,  its  compulsion  often  to  lony  for 
Luck  in  the  shape  of  a  with'  calamity. 


Lydicutc  eertninly  had  i^'iod  reason  to  reflect  on  the 
service  his  practice  did  him  in  counteracting  hi  ;  pcr- 
son-il  cures.  He  had  no  longer  free;  eneru'v  enough  I';;' 
spontaneous  resi'n.rch  and  specula'dve  thinking,  bui  !»y 
the  l)ed.-iide  of  patients  the  direct,  external  calls  on  his 


!•>'!  M1DDLEMARCU. 

judgment  and  sympathies  brought  the  added  impulse 
needed  to  draw  liiiii  out  of  hi;a>elf.  1 1  was  no!  sim- 
ply that  hi  •iielicent  harne>s  of  routine  whicli  enables 
.silly  men  to  live  respectably  and  unhappy  men  to  live 
calmly  —  it  was  a  perpetual  claim  on  the  immediate 
l'rr.-h  application  of  thought,  and  on  the  consideration 
of  anothi'i'V  nct-d  and  trial.  Many  of  n--  lookinn'  hack 
Ihroiiu'h  life  would  >ay  that  \\\\\  lundiv-i  man  we  have 
(.•VIT  kno\vn  has  been  a  medical  man,  or  jn'i'haps  that 
surgeon  whose-  line  tact,  directed  by  deeply  informed 
IK  rccp; ion.  has  come  to  us  in  our  net  d  \\i;h  a  more. 
sublime  bciu.'liccnce  than  that  of  miracle-workers. 


When  a  man  is  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  in  hN  fori  tines, 
]i."  may  stay  a  hum'  while  there  in  spite  of  pmf.'-.-ional 
accomplishment.  In  the  15riii--h  e-limate  there  i>  no 
incoinpat ibility  between  scientiiic  iu--i:;-hi  and  l'ui'ni>hed 
lod^inii's  :  the  iiicom'iaiibiliiy  is  chielly  between  >cicn- 
tiiic  ambition  and  a  wife  \v!io  (jbjects  to  that  kind  of 
residence. 


lUilstrode  shrank  from  a  direct  lie  wi:h  an  intensity 
disproportionate  to  tin.-  number  of  hi>  more  indirect 
misdeeds.  Jnit  many  d'  ihe-e  nii--deed>  wi  re  lii;e  ihe 
subile  mnseular  movemenis  which  are  no;  taken  ac- 
count of  in  t  lie  con>cimi sne<s.  tiiouu'h  i  hey  lirinir  abuiit 
the  end  t  hat  \ve  lix  onr  n;ind  «i\  and  de -!."•'.  And  ii  i> 
oi:!y  \\liat  \\'e  ari-  vivi  i'y  cun  <•}  -u-  <;f  tiiat  \ve  can 
vividlv  imairiiie  io  be  seen  bv  Omi  i-cieiice. 


MIDDLEMARCII. 


233 


of  breaking  his  vow.  Is  it  that  lie  distinctly  means  to 
break  it?  Not  at  all:  but  the  desires  which  tend  to 
break  it  are  at  work  in  him  dimly,  and  make  their  way 
into  his  imagination,  and  relax  his  mnscles  in  the  very 
moments  when  he  is  telling  himself  over  again  the 
reasons  for  his  vow. 

Thisva-uc  conviction  of  indeterminable  guilt,  which 
was  enough  to  keep  up  much  head-shaking  and  biting 
innuendo  even  among  substantial  professional  seniors, 
had  for  the  general  mind  all  the  superior  power 
of  mystery  over  fact.  Everybody  liked  better  to 
conjecture' how  the  thing  was,  than  simply  to  know 
it;  for  conjecture  soon  became  more  confident  than 
knowledge!  and  had  a  more  liberal  allowance  for  the 
incompatible.  Even  the  more  definite  scandal  cou- 
ccrning  Bulstrode's  earlier  life  was,  for  some  minds, 
melted  into  the  mass  of  mystery,  as  so  much  lively 
mcial  to  be  poured  out  in  dialogue,  and  to  take  s 
fantastic  shapes  as  Heaven  pleased. 

Hopefulness  has  a  pleasure  in  making  a  throw  of  any 
kind,  because  the  prospect  of  success  is  certain;  and 
only  a  more  generous  pleasure  in  offering  as  many  us 
possible  a  share  in  the  stake. 

There  are  episodes  inmost  men's  lives  in  which  their 
hi-rlH'st  qualities  can  only  cast  a  deterring  shadow 
over  the  objects  that  fill  their  inward  vision:  Lyd- 
gaie's  tendc'r-hearteduess  was  present  just  then  only 
as  a  dread  lest  he  should  offend  against  it,  not  as  an 


234 


emotion  that  swayed  him  to  tenderness.  For  lie  was 
very  miserable'.  Only  those  who  kno\v  the  suprem- 
acy of  the  intellectual  life  —  the  life  which  has  a  seed 
of  ennobling  thought  and  purpose  within  it  —  can  un- 
derstand the  grief  of  one  who  falls  from  that  serene 
activity  into  the  absorbing  soul-wasting  struggle  with 
worldly  annoyances. 


What  we  call  the  "just  possible"  is  sometimes  true, 
and  the  thing  we  iind  it  easier  to  believe  is  grossly 
false. 


Again  and  again,  in  his  time  of  freedom,  Lydirate 
had  denounced  the  perversion  of  pathological  doubt 
into  moral  doubt,  and  had  said,  '•'•  The  pure>t  experi- 
ment in  treatment  may  still  be  conscientious  :  my  bus- 
iness is  to  take  care  of  life,  and  to  do  the  best  1  can 
think  of  for  it.  Science  is  properly  more  scrupulous 
than  dogma.  Doirma  gives  a  charter  to  mistake,  but 
the  very  breath  of  science  is  a  contest  with  mistake, 
and  must  keep  the  conscience  alive." 


In  Middleman/!)  a  wife  could  not  long  remain  igno- 
rant thai  the  town  held  a  bail  opinion  nf  JUT  hu-band. 
No  feminine  intimate  might  carry  h<T  friendship  >o  far 
as  to  make  a  plain  statement  to  the  wife  of  the  un- 
pleasant fact  known  or  believed  about  her  husband; 


HIDDLEHARCn.  235 

but  when  a  woman  with  her  thoughts  much  at  leisure 
got  them  suddenly  employed  on  something  grievously 
disadvantageous  to  her  neighbors,  various  moral  im- 
pulses were  called  into  play  which  tended  to  stimulate 
utterance.  Candor  was  one.  To  be  candid,  in  Middle- 
march  phraseology,  meant,  to  use  an  early  opportunity 
of  letting  your  friends  know  that  you  did  not  take  a 
cheerful  view  of  their  capacity,  their  conduct,  or  their 
position  ;  and  a  robust  candor  never  waited  to  be  asked 
for  its  opinion.  Then,  again,  there  was  the  love  of 
truth  —  a  wide  phrase,  but  meaning,  in  this  relation, 
a  lively  objection  to  seeing  a  wife  look  happier  than 
her  husband's  character  warranted,  or  manifest  too 
much  satisfaction  in  her  lot;  the  poor  thing  should 
have  some  hint  given  her  that  if  she  knew  the  truth 
she  would  have  less  complacency  in  her  bonnet,  and  in 
light  dishes  for  a  supper-party.  Stronger  than  all, 
there  \vas  the  regard  for  a  friend's  moral  improvement, 
sometimes  called  her  soul,  which  was  likely  to  be  ben- 
ctited  I)}'  remarks  tending  to  gloom,  uttered  with  the 
accompaniment  of  pensive  staring  at  the  furniture,  and 
a  manner  implying  that  the  speaker  would  not  tell  what 
was  on  her  mind,  from  regard  to  the  feelings  of  her 
hearer.  On  the  whole,  one  might  say  that  an  ardent 
charity  was  at  work  setting  the  virtuous  mind  to  make 
a  neighbor  unhappy  for  her  good. 


An  old  friend  is  not  always  the  person  whom  it  is 
easiest  to  make  a  confidant  of:  there  is  the  barrier 
<if  remembered  communication  under  other  circum- 
stances. 


236 


Rosamond's  discontent  in  her  marriage  was  duo  to 
the  conditions  of  marriage  itself,  to  its  demand  for 
sclf-suppres-ion  and  tolerance,  and  not  to  the  nature 
of  her  husband;  but  the  easy  concepMon  of  an  unreal 
Better  had  a  sentimental  charm  which  diverted  her 
ennui. 


Men  and  women  make  sad  mistakes  about  their  own 
symptoms,  taking  their  va^uc.  uneasy  longings,  some- 
times for  genius,  sometimes  for  religion,  and  oftenor 
still  for  a  mighty  love. 


There  are  natures  in  which,  if  they  love  us.  \\c  are 
conscious  of  having  a  sort  of  baptism  ::;>.d  consecra- 
tion :  they  bind  us  over  to  rectit mic  and  purity  by  their 
pure  belief  about  us:  and  our  -ins  become  that  worst 
kind  of  sacrilege  which  tears  down  the  invisible  altar 
of  trust.  "  If  you  are  not  good,  noise  is  u'ood  " — those 
little  words  may  give  a  terrific  meaning  (o  responsi- 
bility, may  hold  a  vitriolic  intensity  for  ivmor-e. 

Dorothea's  nature  was  of  that  kind  :  her  own  pas- 
sionate  faults  lay  along  the  easily  conii'ed  open  chan- 
nels of  her  ardent  character ;  and  while  she  was  full 
of  pity  for  the  visible  mistake-  of  others,  -he  had  not 
yet  any  material  within  her  experience  for  subtle  con- 
structions and  suspicions  of  hidden  wr<>i)Lr.  Hut  that 
simplicity  of  hers,  holding  up  an  idi'a  1  for  other-  in  her 
believing  conception  of  them,  wa-  one  of  the  great 
powers  of  her  womanhood. 


It  seemed  to  Will  as  if  he  were  beholding  in  a  inacic 


MID  OLE  MAR  Cff.  237 

panorama  a  future  where  he  himself  was-  sliding  into 
that  pler.sureless  yielding  to  the  small  solicitations  of 
circumstance,  which  is  a  commoner  history  of  perdi- 
tion than  any  single  momentous  bargain. 

We  are  on  a  perilous  margin  when  we  begin  to  look 
passively  at  our  future  selves,  and  see  our  own  figures 
led  with  dull  consent  into  insipid  misdoing  and  shabby 
achievement. 


When  Mr.  Brooke  had  something  painful  to  tell,  it 
was  usually  his  way  to  introduce  it  among  a  number 
of  disjointed  particulars  as  if  it  were  a  medicine  that 
would  iret  a  milder  flavor  by  mixing. 


That  is  a  rare  and  blessed  lot  which  some  greatest 
men  have  not  attained,  to  know  ourselves  guiltless  be- 
fore a  condemning  crowd  — to  be  sure  that  what  we 
are  denounced  for  is  solely  the  good  in  us.  The  pitiable 
lot  is  that  of  the  man  who  could  not  call  himself  a 
martyr  even  though  he  were  to  persuade  himself  that 
the  men  who  stoned  him  were  but  ugly  passions  incar- 
nate— who  knows  that  he  is  stoned  not  for  professing 
the  Eight,  but  for  not  being  the  man  he  professed  to  be. 

The  fragment  of  a  life,  however  typical,  is  not  the 
sample  of  an  even  web  ;  promises  may  not  be  kept,  and 
an  ardent  outset  may  be  followed  by  declension;  latent 
powers  may  find  their  long-waited  opportunity;  a  past 
error  may  urge  a  grand  retrieval. 

Marriage,  which  has  been  the  bourne  of  so  many 
narratives,  is  still  a  great  beginning,  as  it  was  to  Adam 


238  XIDDLEXAKCm 

and  Eve,  who  kept  their  honeymoon  in  Eden,  but  had 

their  first  little  one  among  the  thorns  and  thistles  of 
the  wilderness.  It  is  still  the  beginning  of  the  home 
epic  —  the  gradual  conquest  or  irremediable  loss  of 
that  complete  union  which  makes  the  advancing  .years 
a  climax,  and  age  the  harvest  of  sweet  memories  in 
common. 

Some  set  out,  like  Crusaders  of  old,  with  a  glorious 
equipment  of  hope  and  enthusiasm,  and  get  broken  by 
the  way,  wanting  patience  with  each  other  and  the 
world. 


Lydgate  once  called  Rosamond  his  basil  plant ;  and 
when  she  asked  for  an  explanation,  said  that  basil  was 
a  plant  which  had  flourished  wonderfully  on  a  mur- 
dered man's  brains. 


The  determining  acts  of  Dorothea's  life  were  not 
ideally  beautiful.  They  were  the  mixed  result  of  young 
and  noble  impulse  struggling  under  prosaic  conditions. 
Among  the  many  remarks  passed  on  her  mistakes,  it 
was  never  said  in  the  neighborhood  of  Middlemarch 
that  such  mistake's  could  not  have  happened  if  the  so- 
ciety into  which  she  was  born  had  not  smiled  on  prop- 
ositions of  marriage  from  a  sickly  man  to  a  girl  less 
than  half  his  own  age —  on  modes  of  education  which 
make  a  woman's  knowledge  another  name  for  motley 
ignorance  —  on  rules  of  conduct  which  are  in  flat  con- 
tradiction with  its  own  loinlly-as>eried  belief>.  "\Yhile 
this  is  the  social  air  in  which  mortals  begin  to  breathe, 
there  Avill  be  collisions  such  as  those  in  Dorothea's 


MIDDLEXARCIT. 


239 


life,  where  great  feelings  will  take  the  aspect  of  error, 
and  great  faith  the  aspect  of  illusion.  For  there  is  no 
creature  whose  inward  being  is  so  strong  that  it  is  not 
o-reatly  determined  by  what  lies  outside  it.  A  new 
Theresa  will  hardly  have  the  opportunity  of  reforming 
a  conventual  life,  any  more  than  a  new  Antigone  will 
spend  her  heroic  piety  in  daring  all  for  the  sake  of  a 
brother's  burial:  the  medium  in  which  their  ardent 
deeds  took  shape  is  forever  gone.  But  we  insignificant 
people,  with  our  daily  words  and  acts,  are  preparing 
the  lives  of  many  Dorotheas,  some  of  which  may  pre- 
sent a  far  sadder  sacritice  than  that  of  the  Dorothea 
whose  story  we  know. 

Her  finely  touched  spirit  had  still  its  fine  issues, 
thotmh  they  were  not  widely  visible.  Her  full  nature, 
like  that  river  of  which  Alexander  broke  the  strength, 
spent  itself  in  channels  which  had  no  great  name  on 
the  cart  h.  But  the  effect  of  her  being  on  those  around 
her  was  incalculably  diffusive :  for  the  growing  good 
of  the  world  is  partly  dependent  on  unhistoric  acts ; 
and  that  things  are  not  so  ill  with  you  and  me  as  they 
might  have  been  is  half  owing  to  the  number  who  lived 
faithfully  a  hidden  life,  and  rest  in  unvisited  tombs. 


ing  rapturously  at  Celia's  baby  would  not  do  for  many 
hours  in  the  day,  and  to  remain  in  that  momentous 
babe's  presence  with  persistent  disregard  was  a  course 
that  could  not  have  been  tolerated  in  a  childless  sister. 


2-iO 


Dorothea  would  have  been  capable,  of  carrying  baby 
joyfully  for  a  mile  if  there  had  been  need,  and  of  loving 
it  tliu  more  tenderly  i'»r  that  labor:  but  to  an  aunt  who 
does  not  rccogni/.e  her  infant  nephew  a>  Iloiuldha.  and 
has  nothing  to  do  for  him  but  to  admire.  his  behavior 
is  apt  to  appear  monotonous,  and  the  interest  of  watch- 
ing him  exhaustible. 


It  was  a  time,  according  to  a  noticeable  article  in 
the  Piiini'i-r,  when  the  crying  needs  of  the  country 
might  well  counteract  a  reluctance  to  public  action  on 
the  part  of  men  whose  minds  had  from  long  experience1 
acquired  breadth  as  well  as  concentration,  decision  of 
judgment  as  well  as  tolerance.  dispas>ionatcne.-s  as 
well  as  energy — in  fact,  all  those  qualities  which  in 
the  melancholy  experience  of  mankind  have  been  the 
least  disposed  to  share  lodgings. 


An  eminent  philosopher  amor.L*-  my  friends,  who  can 
dignify  even  your  ugly  furniture  by  lifiing  it  into  the 
serene,  light  of  science,  has  shown  me  this  pregnant 
little  fact.  Your  pier-glass  or  extensive  surface  of 
polished  steel  made  to  be  nibbed  by  a  hoir-e-maid  will 
be  minutely  and  mnlti;udinou--ly  scratched  in  all  di- 
rections; but  place  now  again-!  it  a  lighted  candle  as 
a  ccnlr •  of  illumination,  and  lo  !  the  scratches  will  --eem 
to  arrange  themselves  i:i  a  liii"  series  <\\'  concentric 
circles  round  that  little  >nu.  It  i-  demonstrable  that 
th  •  .-cratches  are  u'oing  everywhere  inipariLilly,  and  it 
is  only  your  candle  which  produces  th"  ilaiiering  illu- 
sion of  a  concentric  arrangement,  its  light  falling  with 


241 


an  exclusive  optical  selection.  These  things  are  a  par- 
able. The  scratches  are  events,  and  the  candle  is  the 
egoism  of  any  person  now  absent. 


Mr.  Brooke's  conclusions  were  as  difficult  to  predict 
as  the  weather  :  it  was  only  safe  to  say  that  he  would 
act  with  benevolent  intentions,  and  that  he  would 
spend  as  little  money  as  possible  in  carrying  them  out. 
For  the  most  glutinously  indefinite  minds  enclose  some 
hard  grains  of  habit;  and  a  man  has  been  seen  lax 
about  all  his  own  interests  except  the  retention  of  his 
sn  nil-box,  concerning  which  he  was  watchful,  sus- 
picious, and  greedy  of  clutch. 


Even  while  we  are  talking  and  meditating  about  the 
earth's  orbit  and  the  solar  system,  what  we  feel  and 
adjust  our  movements  to  is  the  stable  earth  and  the 
changing  day. 


Probabilities  arc  as  various  as  the  faces  to  be  seen 
at  will  in  fretwork  or  paper-hangings  :  every  form  is 
there,  from  Jupiter  to  Judy,  if  you  only  look  with 
creative  inclination. 


Doubtless   some   ancient   Greek   has  observed  that 
ochi;id  the  big  mask  and  Ilie  speaking-trumpet  there 
must  ahvays  be  our  poor  little  eyes  peeping  as  usual, 
16 


242  JffI'DL  L'.VA  I;  CIT. 

and  our  timorous  lips  more  or  less  under  anxious  con- 
trol. 


It  was  a  festival  willi  .Mrs.  Carth.  for  her  eldest  son, 
Christy,  her  peculiar  joy  and  pride,  had  come  home  for 
a  short  holiday  —  Christy,  who  held  if  the  most  de-ir- 
able  tiling  in  the  world  to  he  a  tutor,  to  study  all  it- 
cratures  and  be  a  regenerate  Porson.  and  w!io  was  an 
incorporate  criticism  on  poor  Fred,  a  sort  of  object- 
lesson  IT i veil  him  by  the  educational  mother.  Christy 
himself,  a  square-browed,  broad-shouldered  masculine 
edition  of  his  mother,  not  much  higher  than  Fred's 
shoulder — which  made  it  the  harder  that  he  should 
be  held  superior — was  always  as  simple  as  possible, 
and  thought  no  more  of  Fred's  disinclination  to  schol- 
ar-hip than  of  a  ^iraU'e's.  wi>hin^  that  he  himself  were 
more  of  the  same  heiirht. 


A  man  likes  to  assure  hhii^df.  and  men  of  pleasure 
frenerally,  what  he  could  do  in  the  \vay  of  mischii'f  if 
hi1  chose,  and  that  if  he  abstains  IVom  makinn1  him-idf 
ill  or  be.LT.LTarin.LT  himst-lf.  oi1  t;;lkiim'  \\ ';;  h  the  utmost 
loosciics.-  \\hich  the  narro\v  limits  of  hinnan  capacity 
will  ailcnv.  it  i>  no!  because  h'-  i>  a  >p-pone. 


MIDDLED  ARC II.  243 


the  most  majestic  person  is  obliged  to  sneeze,  and  our 


emotions  are  liable  to  be  acted  on  in  the  same  incon- 


gruous manner, 


To  sec  ho\v  an  effect  may  be  produced  is  often  to  sec 
possible  missings  and  checks ;  but  to  sec  nothing  ex- 
cept the  desirable  cause,  and  close  upon  it  the  desirable 
effect,  rids  us  of  doubt,  and  makes  our  minds  strongly 
intuitive. 


Few  things  hold  the  perceptions  more  thoroughly 
captive  than  anxiety  about  what  we  have  got  to  say. 


Souls  have  complexions  too  :  what  will  suit  one  will 
not  suit  another.1 


It  is  very  difficult   to   be   learned;    it  seems  as   if 


people  were  worn  out  on  the  way  to  great  thoughts, 


and  can  never  enjoy  them  because  they  are  too  tired. 


There  is  no  sorrow  I  have  thought  more  about  than 


— to  love  what  is  great,  and  try  to  reach  it,  and 


MI  DDL  EXAli  CU. 


"What  do  we  live  for,  if  it  is  not  to  make  life  less 
ditiicult  to  each  other?  ' 


By  desiring  what  is  perfectly  good,  even  when  we 
don't  quite  know  what  it  is  and  cannot  do  what  \ve 
would,  we  are  part  of  the  divine  power  against  evil 
—  widening  the  skirts  of  light  and  making  the  strug- 
gle with  darkness  narrower.' 


That  was  a  wrong  thing  for  you  to  say,  that  you 
would  have  had  nothing  to  tiy  for.  If  we  had  lost 
our  own  chief  good,  other  people's  good  would  re- 
main, and  that  is  worth  trying  for.  tSoine  can  be 
happy.  I  seemed  to  see  that  more  clearly  than  ever 
when  I  was  the  most  wretched.  I  can  hardly  Ihii.k 
how  I  could  have  borne  the  trouble,  if  that  feeling  had 
not  come  to  me  to  make  Mrc'nirih.1 


Marriage  is  so  unlike  everything  else.  There  is 
something  even  awful  in  the  nearness  i;  brings.  Kven 
if  we  loved  some  one  el.-e  In: tier  ihan  —  than  those  we 
were  married  to.  it  would  be  no  UM — poor  Dorothea, 
in  her  palpitating  anxiety,  could  only  sei/.c  her  lan- 
guage brokenly —  I  mean  marriage  drinks  up  all  our 


MIDDLEXAKCIL  245 

power  of  giving  or  getting  any  blessedness  in  that  sort 
of  love.  I  know  it  may  be  very  clear  —  but  it  murders 
our  marriage  —  and  then  the  marriage  stays  with  us 
like  a  murder  —  and  everything  else  is  gone.1 


Young  people  should  think  of  their  families  in  mar- 
rying. I  set  a  bad  example  —  married  a  poor  clergy- 
man, and  made  myself  a  pitiable  object  among  the 
De  Bracys  —  obliged  to  get  my  coals  by  stra-tagem, 
and  pray  to  Heaven  for  my  salad  oil.  However,  Casau- 
bon  has  money  enough;  I  must  do  him  that  justice. 
As  to  his  blood,  I  suppose  the  family  qnarterings  are 
three  cuttle-lish  sable,  ami  a  commentator  rampant.2 


Yon  will  certainly  go  mad  in  that  house  alone,  my 
dear.  You  will  see  visions.  We  have  all  got  to  exert 
ourselves  a  little  to  keep  sane,  and  call  Ihhsgs  by  the 
same  names  as  other  people  call  them  by.  To  IK-  sure, 
for  younger  sons  and  women  who  have  no  money,  it  is 
a  sort  of  provision  to  go  mad  :  they  are  taken  care  of 
then.  But  you  must  not  run  into  that.  I  daresay  you 


24G  MIDDLEMARCII. 

arc  a  little  bored  here  with  our  irood  dowager;  hut 
think  what  a  bore  you  mi.ulit  become  yourself  to  your 
fellow-creatures  i!' you  were  always  playing  tragedy 
queen  and  taking  things  sublimely.  Sininic  alone  in 
thai  library  at  Lowiek,  you  may  fancy  yourself  ruling 
the  weather;  yon  must  iret  a  IV w  people  round  you 
who  wouldn't  believe  you  il'  you  told  them.  That  is  a 
flood  lowering  medicine.2 


"\Ve  are  rather  apt  to  eon.sider  an  act  wrong  because 
it  is  unpleasant  to  us.3 


It  would  be  nonsensical  to  expect  that  I  could  con- 
vince Brooke,  and  make  him  act  accordingly.  Brooke 
is  a  very  i;ood  fellow,  but  pulpy:  he  will  run  into  any 
mould,  but  he  won't  keep  shape.3 

She  is  a  <j;ood  creature  —  that  line  irirl  —  but  a  lit- 
tle too  earnest,  it  is  troublesome  to  talk  to  such 
women.  They  are.  always  wauling  reasons,  yet  they 
are  too  ignorant  to  understand  ihe  merits  cl'any  qucs- 
lion.  and  usually  fall  back  on  ilieir  moral  sense  to 
setlle  things  after  their  own  taste.4 


]  don'i  pretend  to  say  that  L'arcbrother  is  apostolic, 
i  i:  -  position  is  not  <j like  like  that  of  l!n-  Aposlles  :  he 
is  only  a  parson  anioiiic  ii:\ri-lii(mci's  whosu  lives  he 
lias  lo  try  and  make  better.  J'radii  ally  I  lind  that 
\vha!  is  called  bein.u'  apostolic  no\v  is  an  iiiipatienee  of 
everything  in  \\~hii  h  ihe  parson  doesn't  cm  ihc  prin- 
cipal ligiuv.4 


MIDDL  EM  An  Cff.  247 

When  one  is  grateful  for  something  loo  good  for 
common  thanks,  writing  is  less  unsatisfactory  than 
speech  —  one  does  not,  at  least,  hear  how  inadequate 
the  words  are.4 


Lydgatc  felt  a  triumphant  delight  in  his  studies,  and 
something  like  pity  for  those  less  lucky  men  who  were 
not  of  his  profession. 

If  I  had  not  taken  that  turn  when  I  was  a  lad,  he 
thought,  I  might  have  got  into  some  stupid  draught- 
horse  work  or  other,  and  lived  always  in  blinkers.  I 
should  never  have  been  happy  in  any  profession  that 
did  not  call  forth  the  highest  intellectual  strain,  and 
yet  keep  me  in  good  warm  contact  with  my  neighbors. 
There  is  nothing  like  the  medical  profession  for  that: 
one  can  have  the  exclusive  scientilic  life  that  touches  the 
distance,  and  befriend  the  old  fogies  in  the  parish  too.4 


Lytlyatc.  —  Don't  you  think  men  overrate  the  neces- 
sity for  humoring  everybody's  nonsense,  till  they  get 
despised  by  the  very  fools  they  humor?  The  shortest 
way  is  to  make  your  value  felt,  so  that  people  must 
put  up  with  you  whether  you  flatter  them  or  not. 

J//1.  l''an-l>r<jth<.r.  —  V/ith  all  1113'  heart.  lint  then  you 
must  be  sure  of  having  the  value,  and  you  must  keep 
yourself  independent.  Very  few  men  can  do  that. 
Either  you  slip  out  of  service  altogether,  and  become 
good  for  nothing,  or  you  wear  the  harness  and  draw  a 
good  deal  where  your  yoke-fellows  pull  you. 


1  had  some  ambition.     I  meant   everything   to   be 


2-13  j/y/>  D  L  EX  A  R  err. 


When  a  man  .nets  a  good  berth,  half  the  deservin; 
must  conic  after.5 


By  being    contemptible  we   .set   men's   mind  to  the 
tune  of  contempt.4 


To  think  of  the  part  one  lullc  woman  can  play  in  the 
life  of  a  man,  so  that  1o  renounce  her  may  be  a  very 
good  imitation  of  heroism,  and  to  win  her  may  be  a 
discipline  ! 5 


Young  women  are  severe;   they  don't  feel  the  stress 
of  action  as  men  do.-"' 


Mr.  Ffwlmih'-r.  —  Thi'Vu  is  the  terrible  Nemesis  fol- 
lowing on  some  errors,  that  it  is  always  possible  for 
thoMj  who  like  it  to  ini  vrpret  them  into  a  crime :  there 
it  no  proof  in  favor  of  the  man  outside  his  own  con- 
sciousness and  assertion. 

JJi.in >(li«.r.  —  Oh,  how  cruel!     And  would  you  not  like 


MIDDLEMARCK.  249 

to  be  the  one  person  who  believed  in  that  man's  inno- 
cence, if  the  rest  of  the  world  belied  him?  Besides, 
there  is  a  man's  character  beforehand  to  speak  for 

him. 

Mr.  Farebrother.  —  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Casaubon, 
character  is  not  cut  in  marble  — it  is  not  something 
solid  and  unalterable.  It  is  something  living  and 
changing,  and  may  become  diseased  as  our  bodies  do. 

There  is  a  great  deal  in  the  feeling  for  art  which 
must  be  acquired.  Art  is  an  old  language  with  a  great 
many  artiiicial  affected  styles,  and  sometimes  the  chief 
pleasure  one  gets  out  of  knowing  them  is  the  mere 
sense  of  knowing.6 

Motives  arc  points  of  honor,  I  suppose  — nobody 
can  prove  them.6 

Fred.— I  am  so  miserable,  Mary  — if  you  knew  how 
miserable  I  nm  you  would  be  sorry  for  me. 

Mnri,_  _  There  are  other  things  to  be  more  sorry  for 
than  that.  But  selfish  people  always  think  their  own 
discomfort  of  more  importance  thau  anything  else  iu 
the  world. 


You  must  be  sure  of  two  things  :  you  must  love  your 
work,  and  not  be  always  looking  over  the  edge  of  if, 
wanting  your  play  to  begin.  And  the  other  is,  you 
must  not 'be  ashamed  of  your  work,  and  think  it  would 
be  more  honorable  to  you  to  be  doing  something  else. 
You  must  have  a  pride  in  your  own  work,  and  in  learn- 


ZOO  MIDDLEXARCII. 

ing  to  do  it  well,  and  not  be  al\va3rs  saying,  There's  this 
and  there's  that  —  if  I  had  this  or  that  to  do,  I  might 
make  something  of  it.  No  matter  what  a  man  is  —  I 
wouldn't  give  two-pence  for  him,  whether  he  was  the 
prime  minister  or  the  rick-thateher,  if  he  didn't  do  well 
what  he  undertook  to  do.8 


A  woman,  let  her  be  as  good  as  she  may.  has  got  to 
put  up  with  the  life  her  husband  makes  for  her.8 


The  lad  loves  Mary,  and  a  true  love  for  a  good  woman 
is  a  great  thing,  Susan.  It  shapes  many  a  rough  fel- 
low." 


"What  I'm  thinking  of  is  —  what  it  must  be  for  a  wife 
when  she's  never  sure  of  her  husband,  when  lie  hasn't 
got  a  principle  in  him  to  make  him  more  afraid  of  doing 
the  wrong  thing  by  others  than  of  getting  his  own  toes 
pinched.  That's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.  Young 
folks  may  get  fond  of  each  other  before  they  know  what 
life  is,  and  they  may  think  it  all  holiday  if  they  can  only 
get  together;  but  it  soon  turns  into  working-day,  my 
dear.3 


MIDDLEXAR  CU.  251 

get  tired  to  death  of  each  other,  and  cau't  quarrel  com- 
fortably, as  they  would  at  home.9 


"Well,  it  lies  a  little  in  our  family.  I  had  it  myself — 
that  love  of  knowledge,  and  going  into  everything  —  a 
little  too  much ;  it  took  me  too  far:  though  that  sort 
of  thing  doesn't  often  run  in  the  female  line  ;  or  it  runs 
under-ground  like  the  rivers  in  Greece,  you  know  — 
it  comes  out  in  the  sous.  Clever  sous,  clever  mothers.10 


People  say  what  they  like  to  say,  not  what  they  have 
chapter  and  verse  for.10 


END    OF    "MIDDLEMAKCH." 


INDEX. 


ABILITY,  limits  of,  56. 

Acting,  Rosamond's,  203. 

Actions,  great,  bind  us  to  a  noble  life,  145. 

Ago,  marks  of  life  experience,  seen  in,  8;  and  youth  parts  of  one  life 
journey,  9;  ripening  of  the  soul  in,  124. 

Aged,  the  grief  of  the,  GO;  middle,  their  duties  to  the  young,  97; 
young  people  necessary  to  the,  131;  eyes  of  the,  like  their  mem- 
ories, 150. 

Animals,  agreeable  friends,  11. 

Appearances,  to  be  trusted,  70. 

Association  in  sound,  90. 

Art,  should  illustrate  common  people  and  things,  35;  an  old  lan- 
guage, 1249. 

Atmosphere,  mental,  changing,  14. 

BEAUTY,  different  kinds  of,  34;  of  a  woman's  arm,  97;  absence  of,  a 

t'-ial,  TOO. 
Blindness,  15G. 


Cliance,  te  worship  of,  120. 
Character,  determined  by  deeds  don 


254  INDEX. 

Childhood,  benefit  of  a  happy,  10;  forgetfiilnossof  tho  joya  of,  34;  For- 
rows  of,  S4;  loneliness  of,  s'7 ;  associations  of,  Cj0,  91;  belief  of,  109. 

Children,  management  of,  12,'. 

Church,  efi'ect  of  going  to,  127. 

Clothes,  shabby,  becoming  to  Maggie  Tulliver,  115. 

Commonplace,  nothing  in  curtain  lights,  1.3. 

Compromise,  ell'eet  of,  ISO. 

Conceit,  comfort  in,  110. 

Confession,  it  prompts  a  response,  10;  sympathy,  an  impulse  to,  10; 
it  gives  dcfiniteness  to  memory,  170. 

Consciousness,  description  of  the  recovery  of,  11. 

Consequences,  impltying  nature  of,  70;  responsibility  for,  75. 

Convenience,  a  motive,  20. 

Courtship,  limited  knowledge  of  character  in,  200;  delusions  of,  209 

Craig,  character  of,  01,  0">. 

Cross,  what  is  the  true,  OS. 

D.\Y!.lc;i!T.  changes  asp.-et  of  misery,  10. 

Dead,  the,  \ve  cannot  atone  to,  0;  grief  for  severity  to,  ."0;  never  dead 

to  us  till  forgotten,  51 ;   likeness  seen  in,  51 ;  valuing  them  above  the 

living,  01. 

Death  and  life  equally  sacred,  10. 
Deeds,  •  :''    ••  .  :'.  indestructible,  105;   contaminating  effect  of  ill,  100. 

,  'ies,  moral,  detected  by  a  f'-minine  eye,  ',j'.\. 
I)(  inon  \vuivhip,  still  jirevailinL',  1-7. 
I)'  -;):>ir  .-ho\vn  in  self-possession,  50. 
Dinah,  character  of,  01. 
[>i.-c   \    ;    rs  not  at  first  ilisti!i^n:-hed,  2'i5. 
J>1-    •:--:    us,  the  waiving  of,  exasperating,  -Jl-t. 
Doctor,  the  family,  -.Ml. 
]>•••-'-.  symjiathy  with,  i'u. 

tent  of  I.ydgate  in  his  life,  200. 
] )  .r  ithea,  <•  ha  racier  i  ,f.  •.'••!;   ln-r  mistakes,  '-•>  ;  her  in'.'uenci',  209. 

Du'y,  id     .     :',  centre  of  moral  life,  .'2 ;  monitions,  of,  110. 


INDEX.  255 

Errors  in  persons  of  small  means,  25. 

Evil,  olivets  of,  75. 

Exile,  effects  of,  125. 

Experience  leads  to  sympathy,  5G;  spiritual,  not  to  be  explained,  58. 

FACE,  of  women  we  love,  33;  adornment  needless  to  a  beautiful,  56; 
lines  of  the  human,  touching,  154;  of  a  traitor,  159;  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  183. 

Faocs  sharpened  by  consumption,  14;  few  uncontrolled  by  self-con- 
sciousness, 24;  expressions  of,  52;  of  boys,  inexpressive,  94. 

Failure  to  realize  plans  of  early  life,  20G. 

Faith,  effect  of  loss  of,  in  fellow-men,  139. 

Falsehood  becoming  unconscious,  121;  easy  in  society,  137. 

Family  likeness,  strangeness  of,  52. 

Fanning,  unprofitableness  of,  01. 

Fear,  use  of,  130. 

Feeling,  inure  effective  than  opinion,  54;  needful  solvent  of  ideas,  142. 

Force  not  measured  by  negations,  1S3. 

Forgiveness,  meaning  of,  57. 

Friendship  delightful,  described,  109. 

GOOD,  substantial,  154. 
Goodness,  ea:-iiy  discouraged,  216. 
Gossip  in  Middleman;!),  234. 
Gratitude,  why  some.do  not  feel  it,  172. 

Grid',  becoming  insensibility,  3;  fashionably  dressed  female  in,  89; 
real  better  than  false,  IS'J. 

II.U'i'iMiss,  not   he  sought,  111;  the  search  for,  fruitless,  123;  not 

obtained  suddenly,   ITS. 
Hatred  compared  to  lire,  20. 
Help,  better  than  alms-giving,  20. 
lli'tty,  character  of,  04. 
Horseback,  dialogue  on.  49. 
]Iou.-e,  a  melancholy,  described,  200. 
Huuiiliiy.  learned  through  suffering,  12;  need  of,  59. 

IDI.A.S-  religious,  14. 


256  INDEX. 

Ignorance,  a  painless  evil,  11. 

Imagination,  different  kinds  of.  208. 

Imperfection  of  heroes.  :_"_'. 

Independence,  need  of,  1*1. 

Inferences,  liberal,  from  few  farts  before  marriage,  193. 

Influence,  of  >incerity  ami  kindness,  13;  of  one  person  on  another, 

17;  men  of,  nreil  to  dominate,  1-1S;  of  the  good,  elevating,  230. 
Injustice,  the  effect  of  ]>artial  knowledge.  VI. 
Inspiration,  source  of  highest  thought.  3j. 
Irwine,  Parson,  ehararacter  of,  4S. 

Ji:Ai.orsv,  demands  of.  90;  arising  from  slight  causes,  22S. 
Judgment,  according  to  results,  83;  the  fear  of  it  sharpens  the  mem- 
ory,  22S. 

KEMPIS,  THOMAS  A,  his  ••  Imitation  of  Christ."  103. 

Knowledge  of  a  man,  necessary  from  his  ow:i  stand-point,  201. 

I.earninL',  C«'lia's  vit'W  of,  '213. 

Life,  fuller,  the  growth  of  sad  experience.  -14;  human,  the  same  in 
all  ages,  13.3;  filed  of  public  affairs  on  privatu,  17-;  cliieliy  val- 
uable as  opportunity  for  helping  others.,  ISO. 

Longings,  obstinacy  of,  10. 

Love,  beginning  in  childhood,  10;  maternal  tenderness  in,  10;  worthy, 
allied  to  religious  feeling,  :!1  :  later,  33;  remembrance  of  first,  34; 
a  niyi-tery,  T.">;  need  of,  'J7  ;  of  Magu'ie  and  Stephen,  lo.'i;  duty  be- 
fore,  lO'.i;  gives  insight,  114;  i)oetry  of  perfect,  124;  need  of  loyalty 
in.  141;  a  supreme  motive  to  the  highest  life,  104;  for  a  good 
Woman,  an  influence,  2  IS. 

Longing,  unsati.-lied,  11-1. 

Loss  of  familiar  objects,  14. 

MAN.  mind  of,  always  masculine,  T,'5. 

Marriage,   suitable   adjustments   in,  •< ;  time   of,    77;   rest   in.   123;  no 

compensation  for  an  unhappy,  ll'i;  obligations  of.  permanent.  1'iS; 

qualifications  f>r,  equally  ncces>;iry  mi  both  >idi1-',   214;  di-satis- 

faction  in,  '--'A  ;  a  betrinuiiiL',  '-•>'  '.  u  at  lire  of,  21 1 '  Mrs.  Cadwallader'a 

advii-e  ab  nit,  2l."i;   without  cunli'leiire,  2.">U. 
Martyrdom,  love  of,  S2. 


INDEX.  257 

Medicine,  practice  of,  231 ;  conscientious  treatment  in,  234. 

Men.  slow.  02;  tongue-tyed,  G3;  acnteness  of,  04;  the  strongest  often 
the  gentlest,  07;  dulness  of,  70;  restlessness  of,  123;  they  are  un- 
certain instruments,  104. 

Mildness,  not  always  a  permanent  quality,  84. 

Miserliness,  common  among  some  classes,  104;  of  Silas  Marner, 
120;  ii  safe  quality,  240. 

Morning,  beauty  of  a  summer,  53. 

Mother,  A,  dreads  no  memories,  10;  sees  the  child  in  the  man,  51; 
love  of,  differs  with  different  times,  170;  lias  a  self  larger  than  her 
maternity,  100;  not  always  deceived  in  her  partiality,  234. 

Music,  effect  of,  31;  relief  in,  97;  harmony  of  lovers  in,  105;  satisfac- 
tion in,  110. 

NATURE,  the  higher  understands  the  lower,  44;   difficult  to  com- 
prehend, 52;  one  does  nothing  at  variance  with  his,  74. 
Nemesis,  characteristics  of,  15;  and  conscience,  43. 
News,  had,  Mr.  Brooke's  way  of  telling,  237. 


PAIN,  release  from  acute,  15;  effect  of  witnessing,  4G. 

Parting,  at  the  root  of  all  joy,  50. 

Passion,  moments  of,  14;  difficulty  of  deciding  between  passion  and 
duty,  94;  the  inspiration  of  crime,  141;  the  nature  of,  141;  people 
in  passion  never  wholly  right,  107. 

People,  commonplace,  worthy  of  interest,  4;  effect  of  agreeable,  39; 
severity  of  mild,  40;  susceptible,  affected  by  tone,  40;  of  the  coun- 
try less  impressible  than  those  of  the  town,  07. 

Pity,  divine  and  human,  13. 

Plans,  useless  to  form,  GO. 

Pleasure,  wearisome  days  of,  05. 

Pluck  to  light,  though  sure'  of  losing,  27. 

Politeness  sometimes  a7i  exasperation,  213. 

Possibilities,  uncertainty  of,  2UO. 

1'oyser,  Mrs.,  character  of,  72. 


258  INDEX. 

Prayer,  power  of,  76. 

Prejudice,  natural  to  some  mimls,  92. 

Pride,  it  helps  to  bear  disappointment,  109. 

Prosperity,  why  I'Vlix  Holt  renounced  it.  ISO,  1S1. 

I'unishment  of  fellow-creatures,  no  cause  for  satisfaction,  27. 

Purity  of  purpose  a  safeguard,  213. 

QUARRELS,  limitation  of,  95. 
Quarrelling,  not  always  harmful,  102. 

RELIGION  more  than  dor'trine,  57. 

Renunciation  of  self-will  the  beginning  of  wisdom,  153. 

Repentance,  the  beginning  of  a  new  life,  1G3. 

Repetition,  effect  of,  11. 

Results  not  always  evident,  182. 

Reticence,  Tito's  love,  of,  144. 

Retribution  less  needed  than  pity,  S3. 

Rhone  and  Rhine,  scenery  on  the,  81. 

Riding,  pleasure  of  stage-coach.  174. 

Rumor,  personilied,  172. 

SAVONAROLA,  impression  produced  by  face  of,  140;  Ronml.i's  trust 
in,  147;  character  of,  14S,  14'J,  15n,  151. 

Seed  sown  unconsciously,  13. 

Self-deception  of  ynung  girls,  ll'fi,  lf/7. 

Self-questioning,  a  morbid  habit.  123. 

Servants,  want  of  faithfulness  in,  05. 

Severities,  half-way,  blunders,  154. 

Sick-room,  a  rcf.iire  from  the  restlessness  of  intellectual  doubt.  21. 

Sin.  shame  for,  11;  of  prosperous  peo-ile,  V< ;  cherished.  ])revents 
pai-'lon,  OS  ;  elleets  of.  widely  felt.  '.'0;  leads  often  to  greater  watch- 
fulm  ss,  MS. 

Sorrow,  wounds  of,  jiennanent,  ^ :    a.-~oci::;io!!s  of  nature  with,   0; 
an  indestrueiil.Ie  foree.  41;  di- pair  in  lir.-!,  4'.';  co!,f;;-ion  of  mind 
in,  4:i;  ln'num!;ing  i:i:'nenee<,r,  :,o ;  w-iliinirness  to  b.  ar,  '!.';  arising 
from  i'alse  ideas,  II:1;   of  wmuen,  i-au.-e.',  by  h:;~ly  ^pei'di,   17>.i. 
:  .  ha.-te  in,  <<-;  hard,  sad  to  remember,  ]  ;:;. 

Speeeh-making.  secret  of,  153;   .Mr.  Brooke's,  224,  dillleulties  of,  245. 


INDEX, 


259 


Btolling,  Mrs.,  character  of,  105. 
Strangers,  interesting,  203. 

Strength  often  shown  in  homage  to  weakness,  109. 
Strong,  duty  of  the,  54. 
Submission,  energy  needful  to,  21S. 
Suffering,  a  regeneration,  44. 

Sympathy,  a  key  to  knowledge  of  others,  17;  a  help  to  patience  and 
charity,  45. 

TALK,  pleasure  in,  03;  possibility  of  abstaining  from,  03;  useless- 
ness  of,  19U.  slrows  mental  qualities  of  speaker,  243. 

Time  changes  aspect  of  things,  34. 

Tom  and  Maggie,  character  of,  83. 

Tongues,  unmanagcableness  of,  21 1. 

Trouble,  common  to  all.  GO;   work  gives  help  in,  00. 

Trust,  of  youth  in  go.nl  fortune,  47;  gives  strength,  57;  best  placed 
in  bachelors.  72;  need  of,  123. 

Truth,  every,  valuable,  1S2. 

Truthfulness,  a  rare  quality.  37. 

Tuliiver,  Mr.,  character  of,  1UU;  Mrs.,  character  of,  99. 

Tunes,  Scotch,  comparison  of,  71. 


WAKING,  sensations  of.  133. 

Watching  in  a  sick-room.  S7. 

Walkintr,  Komola's  way  of,  159. 

Wedding  journeys,  disagreements  on,  211;  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  opin- 
ion of.  25U. 

Women,  complaining,  described,  -13;  foolishness  of.  04;  unreason- 
ableness of,  72;  quickness  of,  72;  not  n  blessing,  73;  ditleivnee 
bet  ween  delicate  and  coarse,  74;  timidity  of.  OS;  fondness  for  help 
in,  U)il;  youiiL',  th.-ir  aliility  to  jmige  men,  107;  ardor  of  a  good 
woman, 'a  valuable  influence,  174;  effect  on  men  of  the  littleness 
of,  1S3;  an  inexhaustible  subject  of  study,  l'J7;  like  Dorothea,  too 


2GO  INDEX. 

Rtimulntintr,  202;  plain,  howLydsrate  regarded  them,  202;  Lydgnte's 

notion  of  earnest.  21(1;  influence  of,  248. 
Words,  ineompeteney  of,  124. 
Work,  needful  as  worship,  &:J;  pleasure  in,  55;  need  of  persistent, 

112;  become*  .••omctime.s  an  end,  122 ;  Caleb  Gartb's  view  of.  211. 
Writing,  Fred  Yinc-ey's,  liand,  22G;  sometimes  better  than  speech,  247. 

YOCTII,  not  in  itself  hopeful,  225. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

THOUGHTS  ABOUT  ART. 

BY   PHILIP   GILBERT   HAMERTON. 

Author   of   "A   Painter's    Camp,"  "The   Intellectual    Life," 
"The  Unknown  River,"  "  Chapters  on  Animals." 

Ne-v  Edition,  Revised,  ivith  Notes  and  an  Introduction. 

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CONTENTS. 

I.  That  certain  Artists  should  write  on  Art.  II.  Painting 
from  Nature.  III.  Painting  from  Memoranda.  IV.  The 
Relation  between  Photography  and  Painting.  V.  Word- 
Painting  and  Color-Painting.  VI.  Transcendentalism  in 
Painting.  VII.  The  Law  of  Progress  in  Art.  VIII.  Artists 
in  Fiction.  IX.  Picture  Buying.  X.  Fame.  XI.  Art  Crit- 
icism. XII.  Analysis  and  Synthesis  in  Painting.  XIII. 
The  Reaction  from  Pre-Raphaelitism.  XIV.  The  Artistic 
Spirit.  XV.  The  Place  of  Landscape-Painting  amongst  the 
Fine  Arts.  XVI.  The  Housing  of  National  Art  Treasures. 
XVII.  On  the  Artistic  Observation  of  Nature.  XVIII. 
Proudhon  as  a  Writer  on  Art.  XIX.  Two  Art  Philosophers. 
XX.  Leslie.  XXI.  Picture-Dealers.  XXII.  Thorvaklsen. 
XXIII.  The  Philosophy  of  Etching.  XXIV.  Amateur  Paint- 
ers. XXV.  Can  Science  help  Art  ?  XXVI.  Picture-frames. 
XXVII.  Autographic  Art. 

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"  They  ('  A  Painter's  Camp  in  the  llighlan  !<.'  and  '  Thoughts  about  Art  ')  are 
tlie  most  usfful  bucks  that  could  be  placed  in  the  hauls  of  tue  American  Art 
public.  If  "we  were  asked  win-re  the  nio.-t  intelligent,  the  must  trustworthy.  the 
most  practical,  and  the  most  interesting  exposition  (if  .MoJeni  Art  and  cognate 
subjects  is  to  be  found,  we  s.houid  point  to  Hamerton's  writings." 

From  The  Rnuii'l  Table. 

"  Considered  merely  in  its  literary  aspect,  \ve  know  of  no  pleasanter  book  than 
this  for  summer  reading.  Artistically,  we  consider  it  a  uiost  valuable  addition 
to  cur  literature." 

From  Tat  New  \'ork  Tribune. 

"In  the  pursuit  of  his  profession  as  a  landscape-painter,  the  author  has  not 
hesitated  to  plunge  into  the  n-mo'e  and  unattractive  nooks  and  comers  of  n.-Uur«, 
gathering  a  rich  store  of  materials  for  hi.-  pencil,  and  describing  his  whimsical 
experiences  with  a  gayety  and  Unction  in  perfect  keeping  witu  tue  subject  Ilia 
account  of  the  practical  methods  by  wh;c:i  he  con,  (in-red  tlie  diiiiculties  of  the 
position  is  instructive  in  the  extreme,  wnile  the  anecdotes  an  1  a  I  ventures  which. 
he  relates  with  .-ucii  exuberant  fuu  make  nis  bi.uk.  one  of  tue  most  entertaining 
of  the  season.'' 

From   TIP.   Pkilivlf'^liia  Ei-mhiir  T,  !•  -rn/,/1. 

"  U'e  are  not  addicted  to  enthusiasm,  but  the  little  work  before  us  ia  really  so 
full  of  good  points  that  we  ._;roiv  so  admiring  as  to  appear  almo-i  fulsome  in  it« 
prai.-e.  .  .  it  Has  been  many  a  day  since  we  have  been  called  upon  to  review  a 
work  which  gave  us  such  real  pleasure.'' 


ecording  the  writer's  experience 
.  '1'ne  v-uume  is  intere-tin^,  not 
n:i-!i  •!•.  fertile  amount  of  sii_'^e-tive  tiiou_'ht  ;:iil  iVc-h  oli-c-rvation  it  ciuitain.s 
bearing  on  tlie  author's  o.vn  ).rofe-.-ion,  but  for  it.-  sketi  lies  ut  Char.u-rer  anj 
s?ein-r.\  ,  an.l  its  shreud  and  ki  en  remarUs  on  topic-  disconnected  with  Art.  There 
».re  M-r\  few  chapters  ot  foreign  travc..  for  in-tance.  uhicli  are  so  admirable  iu 
tv.-n  rc-pect  as  Mr.  11  unerton's  arti  -le  on  •  A  Little  l-'ri-ii'-h  t'it\  :  '  an  1  the  gen- 
era! opinions  on  Art  given  in  the  •  Kpi.o^ue  '  aj-e  \vi'r'h\  tin-  atti-uti.in  of  all 
|,ain'.,-;'s,  especially  of  tin-  champions  ot  extreme  schools.  U  e  hive  never  set-ii 
miy  of  .Mr,  Uamer'ton's  picture-  :  but  if  he  paints  as  de.ightl'ully  as  lie  writes,  lia 
asu.it  be  an  artist  of  more  than  common  skiii." 


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BY    II .    II. 


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poem-',  v.  Li  e  no 
of  fervor  ai.d  of 
and  makes  the  -i 

.   .   .    > 


e  new 

more 


ntten. 
les.  of 


ate  ai.d  tender  feeling 
Tril'ir  e 

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in?ti:  ct  witli  tlie  quality  of  the  fne-t  L'liri-tian 
is,  c.':-fi-.\in^  ^edatu  with   Ios-rs  and  cafes, 
with    i  i  :  iration  that  i<  t'tii!  of  tcrii. 

'• 'J'h-j  ;  oein-  lit"  this  lady  have  taken  a  j 
hi'ilicr  thin  tliat  of  any  iivinu  Ai'ieric.it)  ii,i::_'  ]i 
of  a  d  er.Mir.'.ity.  \vh:ch  V:-.A\ 

]i!;eie  '  and  r.nites  al    ih  'Liuht 

Inte>--O  t;in. 

••  Since  •';  :    '  '  !-  K.  L..'  no  \vc 

flap    n 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


